We'll Share Paradise
by Broken-Vow
Summary: Erik is not a charitable man, and he will have what is his.
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome to the story that's been receiving my inspiration for quite some time. I'm rather worried about it, because (I think) it's a bit different from anything I've done before. Just give a clicky to the little button and tell me what you think. Perhaps cliche in the beginning...but perhaps not. Anyway, enjoy!**

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"Please, just leave me alone!"

The flustered young woman sat down into the nearby chair heavily, a sigh escaping as the other women bumped and tripped over each other in their haste to exit and obey their mistress's wishes. Even after the door closed and the flurry of the many skirts died, the young woman still sat, staring into her hands folded neatly on her white lap. Warm and joyful sunshine soaked through the window and stained the floor, yet the woman would have paid less attention to the weather if it had been hailing.

Slowly, as if in a trance, she removed the long and soft veil, setting it carefully onto her lap and trying to imagine what it was going to be like to wear it in front of dozens of people. Perhaps it would mask her terror. There was, of course, nothing to be terrified about. She and her fiancée were very much in love and they had gone through many trials to reach this day. However, the uncertainty of her future unsettled her all the same, as it was with all new brides. For the hundredth time that day, she went over to the full-length mirror that rested in the opposite corner and examined herself in her white dress. It was a very lovely dress, and she smiled at the way that it moved around the floor. With hands that shook ever so slightly, she adjusted it once again, smoothing the slight folds in the skirt and pulling the sleeves in order to achieve what she hoped was a picturesque bride. After all, the wealthy would be coming to see her, but they would not come to applaud and admire this time. She swallowed nervously and pulled at her hair for a few minutes before giving a chiding little laugh and turning to face the window.

Her gaze drifted to her bare finger on her left hand, and, as if seized by a sudden impulse, she quietly went over to a small chest that was half-full of odds and ends she hadn't the courage to part with: letters, a photo or two, old programs, a knitted shawl given to her by a dear friend, and other such commodities. She knelt down, careful not the muss her dress, and pushed aside all of them, feeling for the corner of the fabric that lined the bottom. When it was finally between her fingers, she pulled it back slowly, staring intently and finally catching the slight shimmer of gold.

Footsteps neared her door and she quickly pulled away, becoming aware that she had been holding her breath. Guilt flooded her stomach and she said a quick and silent prayer before standing, yet the heavy footsteps merely passed by, leaving her drowning in silence once again. Another thirty seconds passed by, and once again she knelt, her mind becoming quite focused and her hands fumbling for the velvet. The gold ring shimmered still, its quiet symbolism nearly forcing her to flee from the room, but she picked it up slowly, nearly dropping it once or twice. It was cool between her fingers, and she, becoming even more enthralled by each passing second, gingerly slipped it on her finger.

As she looked into the mirror yet again, she looked at it resting plaintively on her hand and nearly shuddered. The plain and harmless little thing had been the source of so much pain and sorrow that she could feel its deadening weight pull at her hand. She could not help but stare at the gold and wish away so many things.

"Second thoughts, my dear?"

She could feel herself nearly swooning but remained upright, frozen into her position and gazing into the mirror. The reflection of a tall, thin man dressed in black burned her with his yellow eyes, and she remained silent, petrified.

"How flattering; I don't wish to perceive things incorrectly, yet I was sure that you would begin shrieking hysterically."

There was a moment of silence, and she finally built up enough shaky courage to stutter out, "I could, you know...scream."

With an easy sigh, he removed his hat and set it on the bed, saying, "I very much wish you wouldn't. I don't want to make this difficult and you might hurt your voice."

Christine remained rooted to the floor and watched as he casually strolled about the room, craning his head to examine the ceiling and elaborate light fixture.

"Does this room make you happy?" he questioned, stopping to look at her with his hands clasped behind his back. "It's big, beautiful, and obviously suited for a lady."

"I – I..." She nervously pulled on her sleeves once again. "I've never thought about it."

He continued to walk about the room, stealing glances at her every now and then

"Your dress suits you nicely," he finally admitted. "Although I always imagined you with a long train, Christine; yes, a very long train, with white flowers in your hair and a ring of them about your waist."

"What are you doing here?" Christine finally whispered. "You're – you're dead. I read the _Epoque _– "

"Ah, yes," he mused, cutting off her stuttering. He was silent for a minute, examining her with that searing gaze. "Do you think I'm a ghost, Christine?"

She replied very softly, "At one time. But I have since learned that you are no ghost, nor will you ever be."

When his eyes lit up, she could tell he was smiling strangely with his twisted lips. "It was mainly for my benefit, you see. Daroga needed to be convinced somehow...I'm quite positive that the advertisement did it. Christine, there's also something that I must talk with you about..."

The young woman gasped slightly as he made a quick and cat-like move, ending up so close to her that she could smell the slight stench of death radiating from him. She stumbled backwards, reaching for physical support and finding it offered by her nightstand. Erik advanced still, his eyes beginning to glow as they always did when he was angry.

"I waited, Christine," he hissed softly. "I waited for _two weeks_. I convinced myself of many things, but after the minutes ticked away and the hours slid through space, I realized that you weren't coming. It was very...disappointing." As the last word sliced through the air, he leaned even closer, and Christine fumbled with the only weapon she could find: a fountain pen that was resting on the stand beside her bed. To her anger and surprise, he merely laughed when she brandished it.

"Get away from me," she managed to command. "Leave me alone. Take your ring, if that's what you want; I shall be married soon, and you have no business here!" Christine felt quite stunned by her own boldness.

A pressing minute of silence hung around them heavily, yet Erik did not seem at all uncomfortable.

"As a matter of fact, my dear, I do intend for you to be married soon. There is some unfinished business between us, something which I intend to correct today."

"There is nothing left for us! Everything that needed to be said has been. Here – " She hastily pulled the ring off of her clammy finger and held it out to him. "Here. Take your ring back and leave me alone."

"Erik gave it to you as a gift," he muttered, staring at it. "Something to return to him when you buried his body."

"I cannot accept this any longer," Christine insisted. "I am soon to be married."

"Yes," Erik agreed, blinking a few times as if coming out of a deep sleep. "Yes, soon."

To her terror, he began to rummage in his pockets for something, and she quickly picked up the pen once again.

"Erik, stop it!" she demanded, creeping toward the door. He followed nonchalantly, never looking at her and still digging through the inside pockets of his sleek and baggy black jacket. When he finally found what he was looking for, he held it up and unscrewed the lid off of a small vial.

Now frantic, Christine reached for the doorknob, pushed open the door, and screamed her fiancée's name as loudly as her voice would permit. Erik gave a slight hiss, pulled Christine in, slammed the door shut, and roughly tugged her head back. The liquid was bitter and made Christine's eyes burn as he angrily poured it into her mouth. With the same courage and audacity that was coming to her more frequently, she spat it out. Erik heatedly poured the rest of the contents into her pink lips before clamping her mouth shut and massaging her throat, forcing her to swallow it.

He could now hear hurried footsteps accompanied by frantic shouts and the constant yelling of Christine's sacred name. The young woman in question was beginning to sway, and, with a quick and graceful swoop, Erik swept her into his arms.

Mere seconds later, the door burst open, and Raoul de Chagny stumbled into the room, his blue eyes wide with fear.

"Christine?" he called frantically. "Christine!"

His gaze rested on the crumpled veil and then wandered over to the open door on the balcony. With an anguished cry, he fell to his knees.

One of the men who had accompanied him rested his hand on Raoul's quivering shoulder. "What should we do, monsieur?"

The young man gently touched the veil. "There is nothing we can do. She's gone."


	2. Chapter 2

It was not a good place, of that she was certain. Her exposed skin was frigid, and yet the flesh covered by clothing seemed to burn. A peculiar smell seemed to hang about her. With great difficulty, she shifted and opened her eyes halfway, making a gargling moan in the back of her throat. It burned fiercely.

Someone pushed her into a sitting position and poured a cool drink into her mouth.

"Try to be a good girl and relax," a voice said soothingly into her ear.

The suggestion was so easy to follow; her body and mind were exhausted in every possible way, and yet they began to run, images flashing through her mind and angry words reverberating around her head. She remembered a ring, a pen, footsteps, a mirror, a bed and hat, and a mask.

A hand pushed her back when she tried to sit, and she groaned again.

"Be still," said the voice once again. "I'm sorry about the dosage, my dear; it was quite a bit, yet you were struggling so much that I had no choice."

A hard and cold object settled on her cheek. Her vision was becoming better, and she could make out a dark object hovering above her. Two globes of fire seemed to glare out of the darkness, and she gave a feeble cry of terror.

"Christine, you really must try to move and speak as little as possible. It will help clear your head."

Nothing else was more desirable, so she was silent and stiff for the better part of five minutes. Her heart rate was steadying, as was the pounding in her head. When at last she opened her eyes, Christine could at last see the shape. A man in a black mask was peering at her, and his eyes were burning as brightly as the sun. At last, understanding began to course through her brain, and each painful detail seemed to scorch her.

Erik seemed relatively indifferent as she frantically pushed him away and clambered off the couch. However, as her dress was big and restraining, she tripped clumsily, and her cheek smacked into the cold, hard floor. His large hands were instantly about her waist, straightening her and examining her face.

"You have a small cut, darling," he said sadly, pressing one long, bony finger to her cheek. "Let me help you."

He left the room quickly. Christine fled to the nearest door and opened it, only to find her prison-bedroom glaring back at her. With an anguished cry, she slammed the door shut on the Louis-Philippe bedroom and began to sob.

She started when Erik crept up to her and put his cold hand on top of her head, saying, "Hush, there, my dear. I left it exactly as you did; I swear that I did not change a thing."

"What do you want?" she managed to whisper into her arms.

"Many things," he replied dreamily. "I am, as you know, quite a selfish person. I would very much like a house above ground, but you know that. I would also like my music to be internationally recognized, yet the idea is ridiculous. Where would they send the money? '_Erik_. _Below the Opera House_. _Paris_, _France_.'" Here he gave a sad chuckle. "Of course, I wouldn't do it for the money, but who would be willing to print a monster's music? I would also like a new bed for you, Christine. I find yours small and wearing out. It would take a while, but I will get to it eventually. I want – "

"Stop!" she nearly shrieked. "_What do you want_, _Erik_?"

Christine felt him become cold and stiff, and he said coldly, "What I've always wanted from you, Christine. You always seem to be so close, and yet something always ruins you. I want what is mine."

"I am not yours," she said angrily, standing at last. "I belong to no one but God."

"Your soul belongs to _me_," he stated, frowning. "Soon, everything else will. Two days, Christine. That's what I'm giving you."

"What do you mean?" she asked shakily, not sure if she actually wanted to hear the answer.

Now cool and collected, Erik swiftly cleaned up the smear of blood, ignoring her disgusted shiver and instead saying:

"I suspect that dress is quite limiting. I'll leave you to change and freshen up. If you would like, leave it on the bed and I'll dispose of it."

"No!" she finally said, backing into her door and practically shaking with anger. "Take me back this instant!"

"I must say that I can't, Christine. I'm not a man of charity, and I will have what is rightfully mine."

"That's ridiculous," she snapped. "I don't belong to you." And yet, as she remembered her past days spent, Christine realized that she _did_. Her pride, however, would not.

"You do. This is your payment, Christine, for what I've given you, what I've _done _for you. I do not give young girls a crystal throat without expecting something in return."

Christine shivered furiously. "You've deceived me for months; you've lied and cheated and kidnapped and...and _murdered_! You cannot keep me here, Erik."

He was silent for a moment, and, in that short time, Christine thought, with wild amazement, that she had won.

"Two days, Christine," was his soft reply, and, with unusual and cruel force, he pushed Christine into her room, ignoring her screams and constant thrashing, and locked the door firmly.

The young woman, now in complete and hopeless hysteria, continued to shriek through the door and strike the wood ferociously, demanding her freedom and condemning Erik for his faults. The only answer she received was when she had cried herself hoarse was a musical, "Quiet, Christine. I am trying to work."

Hours passed quietly; she paced endlessly, muttering to herself and looking very much like a madwoman. There was no need to explore her bedroom; she knew it quite well, from the small writing desk in the corner to her large and canopied bed that spread out ominously. All too soon, she lost track of time. It seemed days before her door opened, and she, terrified, fled to the corner of her room, thinking that her two days of freedom were already spent.

_He _entered calmly, a tray laden with fruits balanced in his slender fingers. Setting it on the desk, he politely bowed before looking at her.

"Goodness, Christine, you still haven't changed out of that wretched thing? Surely it isn't comfortable; perhaps one of the dresses in your closet would suit you better."

Mounting her wavering courage, she replied shakily, "I'm to be married soon...I – I can't go in a silly old common dress. I'm to be married soon..."

"Yes, my dear," was the man's steady reply. He approached slowly, watching her closely and making calculated and smooth movements. "Yes, soon. But perhaps you should sleep for a while. Or you may want to eat first, whichever would please you best." He extended his hand which, to his surprise, she accepted and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

"Perhaps I will sleep first," she said dreamily, and he knew that her mind was still in slight shock. "Perhaps...," she whispered. "Yes, I will sleep. Goodnight. You must leave; I'm to be married soon, and you cannot be alone with me."

As he exited, Erik heard her say softly once again, "I'm to be married soon."


	3. Chapter 3

Christine woke uncomfortably once again. She felt smothered and extremely warm and was forced to take a moment to breathe and fan herself before, once again, analyzing her situation.

The Louis-Philippe room still remained, as immovable and constant as the sun, its bright glare nearly blinding her to tears. She could recall little of the previous night...If it _was _simply last night. Perhaps she had slept for the two days! Dragging her long and now-creased skirts behind her, she hurried to the door and, thankfully, found it unlocked. Refusing to call out his name, she quietly made her way out into the drawing room, looking for the clock that she knew she would never find. The entire house was very well-known; everything from the silken coffin to the horrible torture chamber had not escaped her eyes, and she lingered quietly in front of the organ, hesitant to touch it and avoiding the sight of the music piled next to it.

"There you are, Christine," the voice called out, making her jump ridiculously and then blush. "I'm sure you're hungry, and I've prepared something for you."

On the contrary, she wasn't famished at all, yet she sat down at the table simply for the sake of _doing _something. Erik observed her frowningly.

"You don't look well, my dear. Are you sure you're all right? And you are _still_ in that unsightly gown; is nothing to your liking? I can very well obtain the most fashionable dresses for you, if it would please you. But you're not eating! Do you not like anything on your plate? I will very happily make something else for you. Christine, you are dreadfully pale; did you sleep at all? Perhaps you would like to sleep now, or even after you've eaten – whatever you would like best."

He waited for the answers, and yet all she said was, "What time is it?"

A large pause followed, and he refused to look at her as he solemnly dished up more potatoes onto her untouched plate.

"You have one more day. Tomorrow night, Christine."

Minutes passed by silently. The odd couple sat stiffly in their places. Christine stared at her plate quietly, and Erik stole glances at her every now and again. He did not fail to notice a solitary tear sliding down her cheek, yet it was only one that splashed onto her lap. After nearly ten lonely and cold minutes, Christine mumbled softly,

"I think I shall return to my room."

"Of course, dear." He rose to accompany her and began to babble away about endless things that failed to register in her weary mind. "While you sleep, I shall finish composing the mass. It is quite grand, Christine, and I think you will weep very much. But they will not be sorrowful tears – no, they will be tears filled with joy and laughter. It will be a gay occasion. I hope you will enjoy your supper, too. The food will be splendid; I've made sure that all of it is what you enjoy best. Would that please you, Christine? Do you like the sound of that?"

He pestered her all the way to her bedroom door, never ceasing to speak until she wearily replied,

"I must sleep." And, ignoring his further comments, she closed the door, quite unable to accept the situation that had rained down upon her.

To her own surprise, she didn't cry at all during the entire night. She sat stonily on the edge of her bed, staring at a small burn on the nightstand. It had been during her first fortnight in the house; afraid to sleep in the dark, she left the candle burning, and Erik had been quite upset, deeming her the luckiest girl to have ever lived and proclaiming it was a miracle the whole Opera House hadn't been burned to the ground. The burn was the only imperfection she could find in this room, and, in a bizarre way, it comforted her, reminding her that, despite what Erik wanted or thought, their queer little life would never be the picturesque one that he envisioned.

Though no clock was available, it seemed to her that a giant one had been placed right next to her. Christine heard the _tick tock _and was quite sure it was ticking away at her impending damnation.

_Tick_. _Tock_.

_What have I done to deserve this_?

_Tick_. _Tock_.

_Surely Erik will come to his senses and release me_.

_Tick_. _Tock_.

_I cannot stay here for the rest of my life_.

_Tick_. _Tock_.

Shuffled footsteps interrupted her reverie, and Christine held her breath. He stopped outside her door, silent for a minute or so, yet, with a heavy sigh, he left, leaving her to exhale slowly. Surely nothing that Erik planned would be better than her wedding with Raoul. Christine had known of everything that _should_ have taken place, and she couldn't have wished for a better wedding...or marriage. She was worried about Raoul and wondered what he was doing: possibly tucked up in bed, safe and untroubled, or maybe he was in the streets, ragged and exhausted, searching for her and knowing that she would be impossible to find. It nearly caused her to scream with frustration when she realized that she would never find out, yet instead she fell back onto the bed, her skirts becoming upset and settling around her feet once again.

Endless prospects swirled around her tired mind. Although _marriage _had never fallen from either of their lips (if Erik's may be called so), it was an unspoken understanding, and she didn't seem to have the strength to fight it. What if she flatly refused to wed him? Would he become so terribly angry that he would lock her away? Would he see themselves as married, regardless that "I do" had never been uttered by her pink lips? What if she _agreed _to marriage? It was doubtless that he would be insatiably happy – perhaps so much that he would eventually release her. Erik might view the marriage as forever binding and become inseparable from her: he would never let her go if he thought as such.

Christine rubbed her eyes tiredly, turning onto her side and trying to decide what would be best for her fate. As a result of her previous..._holdings_...she knew that, whether she wished it or not, Erik would keep her down here as long as he wanted, and she became aware of the fact that if she wanted to leave, she would have to please him, which would first start by marrying him.

Oh, the horrid sound, even in her own head! Christine shut her eyes fiercely, forcing herself to relax and become calm. No longer was she agreeing to save the life of her beloved, but she was now saving herself. Perhaps, if she was a good little girl, Erik would finally reward her...

--

For the third time, Christine awoke in her crumpled and ruined wedding dress. She didn't remember dozing off, nor did she recall removing her shoes or the pins from her hair, the latter now falling about her neck and shoulders. With a heavy and sleepy sigh, she rose from her bed and remembered her conclusion from the night before. Tiredly, she bathed her face, neck, hands, and wrists in the small water basin and emerged once again, this time to see Erik anxiously waiting for her. She did not fail to notice his eyes narrow once again at the sight of her limp white gown, yet she paid it no heed.

"Good afternoon," he said politely. "Did you sleep well? I heard silence all night."

"Afternoon?" was her swift response. "What is the time?"

"Just after two o' clock; you must have been exhausted, my dear. Would you like dinner?"

With a shake of her head, they were once again cast into awkward silence. Erik fiddled with his hands uncomfortably, staring at her feet, as was Christine.

"What..." Christine swallowed and tried once again. "What time...are you..._we_...?"

"Six o' clock," he said to her shoes. "I have..." He disappeared without another word and was at her side in a matter of seconds, a bundle of white lace and silks in his arms. As the stillness continued and she made no move to take the dress, he uneasily pushed it into her arms. Without another word, he left, and Christine returned to her room.

Slowly, reluctantly, she removed her beloved wedding gown and lovingly placed it in her wardrobe, where it disappeared a few days later, much to her grief. Her new one was just as fine, she admitted reluctantly, as she spread it out over her bed and examined it with a critical eye and fingered the stitching. Christine openly acknowledged her preference to her late groom, however.

The hours seemed to be gone with a single _tick _of her invisible clock. She had merely bathed, put on the dress, and started to pin up her hair, yet Erik's persistent knock followed close behind. No tears escaped, nor did they gather in her blue eyes. With elegance and a determined air, she rose and examined herself in the mirror, her blue eyes searching for something she would not be able to find.

"I am to be married soon."


	4. Chapter 4

The knocks on her door became more persistent, and Christine knew that his impatience grew thin quickly. Her hair wasn't even pinned up completely; half of it was streaming down her back, yet his loud knocking told her that there was no more time. The young woman glanced one last time into her mirror; her dress had a long train and a circle of shimmering embroidered flowers wound around her waist.

Although Christine was reluctant to the point of refusing, she could not help but give a modest blush when she saw Erik's reaction. His entire frame froze, and his yellow eyes stared at her face, as if afraid to travel elsewhere. The mental clock in Christine's head ticked away a full fifteen seconds, and she cleared her throat softly.

"Ah," was his final comment. He offered her a trembling, gloved hand, and she took it with a repressed shudder. The supper table was laden and looked as if Erik had spent much time preparing every dish, yet Christine only pushed her food around her plate. She had no space in her mind to think about hunger; however, she took several glasses of wine and noticed that Erik did the same. For once, he did not seem upset by the fact that she ate nothing. He disappeared for a moment and returned with a white flower, a kind which she hadn't seen before. Christine tried desperately not to show her revulsion when he leaned down and fixed it in her hair. Several more minutes passed silently. When it seemed that he could no longer bear his stiff and cold bride, Erik rose and led her out of the house. The sun didn't linger long in the sky after they emerged. She faced it gratefully and inhaled all the colors and vitality of the sunset before allowing Erik to help her into an awaiting carriage.

They drove for quite a while, sitting in opposite sides of the carriage and afraid to speak. Christine felt fine with this situation; she was busily staring out of the carriage window, trying not to think of Erik or his burning eyes that were constantly gazing at her. Houses and shops flew by, and, too soon, the lights in the windows were extinguished. However, the carriage didn't seem to have a particular destination: it made leisurely turns and went around the same blocks a few times. Still looking out the window, she asked,

"Where are we going?"

"Wherever you wish."

A small sigh escaped both of them; Christine knew exactly where she wanted to go, yet she found it all too easy to remain silent.

"Where would you like to go?" Erik persisted, and she felt him draw closer.

To stop him from coming even closer, and to feel herself do something, she quietly said, "Home."

"Of course; you are probably cold – it is chilly out tonight." After a curt rap from inside, the carriage turned and soon Christine realized that they were headed back to the Opera House. She bitterly reprimanded herself for expecting otherwise. Erik allowed her to linger outside for only a few moments; the sun was gone now, lost in the great expanse of space, and he could care less: the only sun that mattered to him was gazing at the stars, dressed in the loveliest gown with her sunshine hair reflecting the moonlight. He wanted to carry her away forever, to lock her up and simply gaze at her for eternity. If he would be allowed that little luxury, he would die the gladdest wretch who ever drew breath. His own sun started a bit when he touched her, and he could plainly see that she was reluctant to go indoors, yet she took his outstretched arm slowly and allowed herself to be led through the gates of the Rue Scribe. She was forced to carry her train because of the mud on the streets, and Erik was only too happy to help.

Now more confused than ever before, Christine walked along silently, forced to cling to Erik's thin arm in order to not wander off into the darkness. The pair rowed in complete silence across the lake until Erik suddenly remarked,

"The siren is calm tonight. I expect she is happy for our marriage." He rowed a few more strokes before quite suddenly stopping and letting the little boat drift. Christine could not endure his heated and scrutinizing gaze, so she played with her dress distractedly.

"Are you happy?" he finally asked tonelessly.

Lying was such a sin, yet, as Christine thought, she realized that she lied constantly about the most wicked things, and especially to Erik. However, the truth would not make him happy, and the lie would.

"Yes." Her voice was flat, noncommittal.

The masked man rowed a few thoughtful strokes. "I should think that all brides would be happiest on their wedding day, and one as beautiful and talented as you, Christine, should be very, very happy."

The boat bumped into the little shore, and Erik assisted her awkward climb out onto the front step.

"I am," she replied, and, as he secured the door behind them, she couldn't keep her question in anymore. "Erik...when – when are we getting married?" She had assumed that the carriage was to take her to a church.

He would not face her and instead lowered his head. "Right now," was his whisper.

Christine wondered if he was crying, but he turned to show dry eyes, which drew quite near as he approached her.

"There is no...minister," she feebly protested as he captured her small hands in his own.

"Erik's authority is just as fine," he said firmly. As he brought her hands close to his chest, Christine felt sure that she would soon faint. Indeed, she very much hoped she would, yet all she was able to do was watch as he drew forth the golden ring.

"I, Erik, take you, Christine Daae, as my wedded wife," he whispered, reverently slipping the ring onto her finger with so much love and tenderness that Christine was almost moved.

"I love you," he said simply, and Christine found it quite impossible to swallow, much less speak.

"I – I...I – " was what she managed to stutter out.

She was silenced with his gaze. "Do you?" was all that he said.

Her mind swirled – she was going to faint, she was sure, but she remained upright, staring into his mask, her hands clutched in his dead ones, his ring resting on her finger, and his endless yellow eyes searching hers pleadingly.

With dread, Christine closed her eyes and whispered, "Yes."

There was a moment of stunned silence for the both of them, and suddenly Erik released his held breath quickly, bringing her hands up and pressing them against his cold mask.

"Christine," he breathed, "you've made me the happiest man alive."

The young bride stood stiffly, unsure of what to do and much less aware of what to say.

Quite abruptly, Erik brought his head up and looked at her. "I must kiss you," he said.

Christine's eyes widened visibly. The very thought of his dead lips touching her own made her tremble violently. His corpse-hand raised his mask, exposing the twisted and shapeless lips, which drew closer. Christine's breathing had quickened to an alarming pace, and she closed her eyes tightly, waiting for the stench of death to come about her nose, yet Erik merely touched his lips to her forehead once again.

Completely drained from so much emotional excitement, Christine collapsed onto the closest chair and pressed a shaking hand to her forehead where his lips had just been moments ago.

"Of course, my darling," he said excitedly, rushing to the awaiting organ and pulling out his mass. "Of course; sit there and listen – cry if you must, my love."

No matter how upset she was, Erik's music always seemed to leave her completely free. It swept her up, carrying her far away from her pain, and she did begin to feel tears streaming down her pale cheeks. This music was lovely and soft, and she knew that he had composed specifically to her tastes. For a few precious moments, Christine ceased to be Christine Daae. She was...no one at all, and the feeling was exquisite.

Her joy lasted only for a short time; Erik was quickly by her side, hesitantly touching her hair and awkwardly trying to hold her hand.

"Are you well, my Christine? I had hoped the music would make you smile and cry, yet so far it has produced only one of the desired results."

"I – I am quite well," she said, wiping away her tears quickly. "That was very beautiful, Erik."

"It is my gift to you," he said eagerly. "Oh, Christine, I cannot imagine anyone happier than I. My bride! My darling bride!"

She allowed him to fawn over her for a few minutes; he cried and laughed alternatively, unwilling to touch her and yet his hands hovered above her hair; words of love and worship fell freely, yet they washed over her easily, and she still sat stiffly.

To her later dismay, she uttered the words which she forever wished that she could take back.

"What is the time?"

Erik quickly checked the watch in his pocket and _tsked _slightly. "It is nearly nine o' clock! To bed at once."

Gratefully, she rose to her feet, only to be followed by her husband.

"I can walk myself, thank you," she said, yet, as the words fell from her mouth, she understood what he was doing, and the fiercest blush ransacked her cheeks. Overcome with trembling, she nearly fell to the floor. Her husband steadied her, but she cried ferociously,

"Do not touch me! Let me go at once!"

She wriggled from his grip and fled to the opposite side of the room, protectively hugging herself and watching him, terrified that he might suddenly attack her. However, Erik merely stood, his gaze quickly turning into a painful glare.

"You are a stupid girl," he hissed spitefully. "Go to your room at once!"

Christine remained hesitant by the door to the kitchen, unsure what the last comment implied.

"_Go_, you inconceivably naïve child!" he roared. "Get out of my sight!"

All too happily, she obliged and slammed the door shut behind her, sliding down to the floor in a heap of sobs and satin. There was crashing from the other room, and, quite suddenly, the whole house erupted into the most violent music she had ever heard. Christine huddled in her bed, hands clamped tightly over her ears and her eyes shut, praying in earnest to her father to take away her Angel of Music.


	5. Chapter 5

It wasn't as if he had _meant _to frighten her! His whole being just seemed to leave him, and all that remained was a rotting shell. Besides shouting like a madman at her, he had also invaded her sweet mind with his horrible music, and he spent many hours by her door, pacing, mumbling, shooting glances at it, embarrassed by his cowardice and temper. The whole day passed, and he never heard a sound from inside. Once, around three o' clock or so, he dragged his boldness back into him and knocked, but there was no answer, and he did not try again, instead choosing to slink away back to his own bedroom.

He was upset with Christine for ignoring him, but he was mostly angry with himself. The downright shame he felt when he saw that innocent blush stain her cheeks! Erik had never felt more humiliated; what's worse, he had actually _allowed _himself to hope. The thought was, by now, absurd, and he gritted his teeth angrily, gripping the edge of his coffin so tightly that his knuckles turned white...well, whit_er_.

A stupid idea came to him: perhaps if he played the sweetest music – possibly their wedding mass – Christine would emerge from her room, smiling and ready to start anew. He supposed that it wouldn't hurt to try, and, with slouching shoulders, he finally left his room, only to find Christine already out of hers.

They both stopped and warily examined the other. Christine was dressed in a lovely blue gown, though she looked very tired and pale. Erik was...well, Erik, a constant, who always managed to recover from surprise very well.

"Good evening, Christine," he offered hesitantly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I...I'm just hungry."

Realizing that she hadn't had anything substantial in two days, Erik once again was overcome with guilt at the way he had treated his new bride. None of this had ever been in his perfect plan. Christine edged her way into the kitchen, keeping close to the wall and reminding Erik more and more of a frightened little sparrow. He chuckled sadistically to himself, but then regretted doing so when he saw Christine's reaction.

The supper was a very sober affair. Christine ate everything on her plate, but she did it with no enthusiasm and said nothing. Erik seated himself at the opposite end of the table, watching her sadly. She would not raise her eyes to look at him.

"I thought, perhaps, I would play for you tonight, and tomorrow we might start our lessons once again; I'm sure you haven't sung in at least a month, my dear. Would that please you?"

The young woman nodded quietly, though Erik had the painful knowledge that she would like nothing of the sort. As she continued to say nothing when he led her to the organ, his irritation built ever so slightly, though he continued the silence. If Christine desired to mope and whine, then he was in no place to stop her. Sitting himself at the organ bench with more anger than he intended, he dove into a song right away.

Christine was only half-listening. She had spent most of the hours in front of her vanity, staring endlessly into the mirror, wishing and praying to be somebody else. After dozing, she awoke to find her stomach mercilessly hungry, and was forced to venture out. Erik had seemed pleasant enough, however, she was impossible at reading his mood, so she tried to make herself as inconsequential as possible. She never enjoyed acting this way, yet it seemed to be her only defense mechanism: Erik was always so polite and gentle when he saw her like this.

Now that her stomach was full, she felt much more relaxed, and she learned over the course of the next few days that she always felt better when her stomach wasn't complaining. Gradually, slowly, Erik managed to bring back the voice that had been rusting, and, as a result, Christine returned to herself. It was no easy task; he was forced to be insufferably calm and quiet, ever praising and trying not to destroy whatever thin ropes were keeping her the way she was. Neither of them referred to their wedding day, nor especially their wedding night.

In fact, little changed, if nothing at all. Erik would dismiss Christine after supper and the two would retreat to their separate bedrooms. They hardly had physical contact, and, when the rare occasion happened, it was only from necessity. Erik forced himself to be content. Had he expected more than this mutual and highly bitter relationship? Although he told himself no countless times, his honest answer was yes, and it was very hard to watch Christine go alone to her bedroom every night.

The one luxury Christine allowed him was his terms of affection. Phrases such as, 'my dear,' and 'darling,' fell ceaselessly from his lips, but Christine never seemed to respond in a positive or negative way. He tried endlessly to make her happy; every night he would take her for walks around the queer little lake. Christine was thrilled when one night he took her outside for a short stroll.

In response, Christine tried to be what he wanted. She was forced to remind herself of her plan each and every time he addressed her. Every night she prayed that tomorrow would be the day, and yet the days always slid by, unchanging and without any comment from Erik on her release. He seemed so content with her that she began to fear her idea wouldn't work in the slightest.

Running away was now invading her mind. She could think of little else as the days slipped into weeks, yet getting out of the house itself seemed to be literally impossible. Erik left frequently, but she could never catch him leaving, and he always came into the house from different rooms.

The idea, however, of being safe in Raoul's arms was too much, and she sat up late every night, staring at the opposite wall in silent thought, her mind working furiously and dissecting every scheme that came. When she realized that she had been under the Opera House for nearly two months, her steady determination was turning into a nearly frantic will.

If Erik sensed her restlessness, he made no comment, and merely went about as usual, composing and teaching, showering her with endless praises and always proclaiming himself the 'happiest wretch alive.'

Christine's luck finally came to her in the early hours of an insignificant morning. For once, she had dozed off before her internal clock struck midnight and had woken much earlier than she usually did. Her throat was quite dry, and she dressed quickly, anxious for a glass of water. As she cracked open the door, however, an interesting sight caught her eye.

Running his large hands along the wall, Erik was obviously looking for something. She held her breath immediately and peered out of her slightly-open door. He seemed to hesitate for a split-second, and she wondered if he had heard her. Anxiously praying, Christine almost shut her door before, to her relief, he began again. It was wondrous; he pressed something in the wall and a door seemed to form right before her eyes. Erik disappeared, and the door was once again blending, invisible, into the wall.

Her heart seemed to leap into her throat, and she swallowed nervously, weighing each and every possibility. It wouldn't be possible to do it at night; Erik never seemed to sleep. To risk her chances and wait might mean that Erik would return and not leave again for several days. No, she decided quickly, it would be now or never.

An image of Raoul's smiling face came to her mind, and she felt better than she had in two months. Soon...soon...When she reached the wall, she realized that Erik's hands were much higher than she could reach. Quickly dragging the piano bench over, she balanced precariously on it and began to imitate his movements, feeling intricately for something that seemed out of place. The wall was smooth, cold, impersonal, and after nearly five minutes she began to wonder if only Erik could operate the mechanism. Her hopes, however, would not let her quit, and only after another ten minutes did she wield success. Unsure of how exactly she managed, Christine examined the wall closely and found the smallest indent, where her straying fingers had luckily landed.

Never mind – she had already wasted too much time. Not bothering to return the piano bench, she slipped out and nearly ran straight into the lake. Christine steadied herself with a sigh and a smile. It was time.


	6. Chapter 6

After thirty minutes of running about in the dark, Christine wished that she had had more foresight. She was in desperate need of a shawl and some kind of light. The only guide was the slimy walls that she clung to, leading her down endless tunnels and never twisting to show the staircase that she had traveled before. Her dress was by now very dirty, and she let herself give a shiver of disgust at the muck that clung everywhere.

At every turn, she expected to see Erik, waiting with his glowing eyes and ready to bring her back to the house. This spurred her to be more cautious, and she crept on slowly, hugging the walls with a fierce desperation. If (_when_, she told herself: _when_) she finally emerged into the Opera House, she would immediately return to Raoul and never leave his side. Perhaps if she pleaded, they could be wed tonight, silently and secretly. After all, her marriage with Erik was not binding. There was no formal ceremony, and it had not been consummated...

She felt herself grow hot once again, and it burned against the cold air and walls, which never seemed to end after hours of searching. Christine realized that she could not fall into despair, so she took steadying breaths and thought of Raoul, and the joy that he would have at seeing her again, alive and safe.

If she could ever find her way out, that is...The layout was impossible, and she had no idea where she was, nor the direction in which she was heading. Afraid to leave the wall and wander off into the darkness, she was always touching it in some way, letting it guide her wherever it led. Her eyes were growing weary from the constant darkness, and she looked in vain for any kind of light.

Christine never knew exactly how long she wandered before Erik finally stopped her. She was peering around a corner warily, and something touched her back. A piercing scream echoed around and reverberated in her head as she turned around and faced the only light she had seen during her expedition; Erik's eyes were looking down at her, unreadable and seemingly expressionless.

"Are you ready to return now?" he asked. "I suspect you're tired."

"Erik," she gasped, shrinking into the wall. "I – I was just..."

"Going for a walk without your Erik?" he supplied lightly. "That was quite foolish, my dear. Only Erik knows the way. You could have gotten lost." He observed her for a moment. "I don't assume you _were _lost, were you, Christine?"

"N – no," she stuttered angrily.

"Of course," he replied after another moment of silent scrutiny. "Shall we return?"

Now close to tears, Christine scrambled to her feet and felt something touch her arm.

"It would be best if you took my hand," Erik said. "Although you know your way, I don't want to risk you wandering off somewhere."

His hand was cold, as always, and he began to pull her through the underground catacombs, confidently leading the way. Her hopes were now finally dashed, and the tears began to course, unheeded, down her cheeks. Trying to cry as quietly as possible, she said nothing and merely followed him, allowing him the pleasure of squeezing his hand once or twice, as if convincing himself that she was really there.

"How ever did you become so filthy?" he asked leisurely. "I hope you're not hurt. Are you hurt, Christine?"

"No," she whispered, feeling another bout of tears begin to spill down her grimy cheeks. The lake was now in view, and he led her around the banks and through a tunnel she didn't know existed.

"Why ever did you come this way?" he said, pulling her through. "The boat would have been much easier. Oh, yes, I remember now. I was using it. You could have always waited until I returned. I wasn't gone for more than an hour, but I suppose you couldn't wait, could you? I'm quite surprised you made it that far without your Erik. Did you know you're exceptionally bright, Christine? And devious, too. Erik will now have to change the lever in his front room. I cannot risk you falling victim to the siren or becoming lost. When you wish to go for a walk, simply tell me, and I will gladly escort you, although I would never have taken you so far. It never did anyone a bit of good. Did you notice how you've mussed your dress? Perhaps a bit of light – there. You've torn right through your sleeve – no, this one. It's quite a relief to know you're not hurt. But you're crying! Are you sure you've not been injured? Yes? I'll draw you a bath and let you sleep. The excursion appears to have made you tired."

She noticed that with every sentence, the grip on her hand seemed to tighten, so, by the end, he was clenching her hand painfully in his own, and, when he released her at last, she drew her hand away quickly, biting back a sob. It didn't take him long to return, and he stopped slightly when he did. She could tell, once again, that a smirk was playing with his shapeless lips.

"Would you like me to call you when supper is ready?" he questioned politely. "I would be happy to – no? Very well. Off then, Christine."

When the door shut, he heard her succumb to sobs, and sighed before leaving to fix the lever. It wouldn't take more than a few hours of heavy work, but it seemed to slip by as his mind was busily occupied with other matters. Christine had failed quite dismally. He knew that she had been watching him find the door, and he pushed his business matter aside, instead choosing to see what his sweet little Christine would do. It took her quite a while to find the switch, and he waited on the banks impatiently, allowing his hopes to rise and foolishly think that she would be a good wife, but, as he suspected, his bride emerged, nearly falling into the lake, he might add, but she straightened and quickly took the opposite path that led around the lake. He was already very disappointed in her, and took to following. She wandered in circles for nearly two hours, hardly making a sound. Only once did she come close to locating the right tunnel, yet as her hand brushed against simply air, she immediately returned to her wall. Yet another example of her fragility; she was unwilling to embrace anything new, unknown, and sometimes it drove him simply crazy. When it was nearly time for dinner, he finally emerged. She was positively terrified. It was very obvious, even under the layers of dirt and filth that covered her face.

Erik sighed heavily, sitting down on his rarely-used fainting couch. The door had been disabled. There were other ways out of the house, yet that one had been the most convenient. It didn't matter, anyway, just as long as Christine remained safe. He didn't know what he was waiting for; Christine wouldn't be out anytime soon. Perhaps it would be best to simply push this whole unpleasant matter aside.

For now, anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

As predicted, Christine didn't emerge until the next day. Like other times, they pushed away the objectionable incident and pretended as if it never happened, refusing to confront what must be confronted.

However, Christine's attempt seemed to spread the huge and tangible gap between them. Erik was forever cold and highly aloof, refusing to look at her, and when he did refer to her as 'darling' or 'dear,' it never sounded natural.

_It isn_'_t as if I _miss _it_, Christine viciously told herself one night. _I just hate it when he acts so sullen all the time_.

The ideas of release or escape seemed to now lose her interest. She accepted the idea late one night and spent only a few minutes crying. Afterwards, her dependable yet rare form of courage emerged and she came from her room the next day, adapting and changing as if she had been born to do so. Erik never seemed to respond to her changes; he went about his day-to-day activities whether Christine was upset or happy, and she was now wishing for some kind of appreciation, even if it _did _come from Erik. Alone and neglected, she filled her days with reading and other trivial things. Once, while cleaning, she attempted to straighten Erik's music and dust his organ. He walked in, a little damp, and she wondered if it was raining, but she never got the chance to find out.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his eyes slightly narrowed.

"I was just cleaning," she said hurriedly, showing him the dust rag. "I thought you might – "

Without bothering to remove his hat or cloak, he swooped down on the organ like some large black bird and examined the piles of paper.

"You've ruined _everything_!" he moaned angrily, picking up a stack and rifling through the papers. "This is mine, do you understand? _Mine_! Never touch my things again!"

Christine now felt very warm, and her cheeks were inflamed with her defensive anger. Erik was busily assessing the damage, irritably muttering to himself and pulling out piles of paper, stacking them in the way that he liked.

"Well?" he demanded, finally glancing at her. "What are you still doing here? Shouldn't you be crying in your room?"

Now positively irate, Christine hotly snapped, "I will _not _be frightened off to my room again! I was simply trying to help, and I apologize that I mussed your papers, but – "

"These were _organized_!" he argued, shaking a fistful of paper at her. "It will take hours to get them back the way they were! Ruin anything in this house you like, but don't touch Erik's music!"

"That's all you care about!" Christine said, her voice rising shrilly. "You don't care about yourself, and you certainly don't care about me!" So saying, Christine turned around and marched to the kitchen, where she washed clean dishes and thought wicked things. She could hear Erik's shuffling for a very long time before finally all was silent. Her hands now white and wrinkled from the water, she glanced out and saw that the music was once again messy and scattered, and Erik was nowhere to be seen.

"His music is _not _'organized,'" she said crossly to herself, feeling a blush appear.

--

The next day found Christine sitting in the drawing room with a pile of assorted clothing, thread, a needle, her brows knitted slightly, her tongue clenched in her teeth, and a lock of hair spilling over her eyes. She brushed it aside impatiently and attempted to thread the needle once again. Sewing had never been a strong suit of hers.

Her repairs were mainly to distract her. She had woken to find an assortment of gifts on her vanity; a pretty hair ribbon and clip, new gloves, and other odds and ends. Still fuming sullenly, she pushed them all to the back of her wardrobe and refused to wear the ribbon that would have nicely complemented her current dress.

Erik finally appeared sometime in the early afternoon, walking in almost sheepishly and taking a hesitant seat in the chair opposite her. Christine would not spare him a glance and instead poked her needle through the fabric so hard that she pricked her finger badly. Giving a little gasp, she pulled the blood away from her dress and put the finger in her mouth, trying not to blush as she noticed that Erik started slightly. He did not offer his sympathies, nor did he offer to bandage her finger, and she felt slightly uncared for once again, though she never would have admitted it aloud.

Feeling something tug at the blouse resting in her lap, she looked up to see Erik's large hands wrapped around it.

"May I?" he asked – nearly whispered – gingerly. With her finger throbbing like mad, Christine doubted that she would be sewing much today, so, with her finger still ridiculously stuck in her mouth, she released the blouse and needle. He threaded it with perfect alacrity and began to sew quickly, looking as content as if he was playing his violin. Christine uncomfortably noticed that his stitching was many times better than hers. Releasing her finger from her lips, she said quietly,

"You are wonderful."

He did not look up as he replied, "When one lives alone, one must become accustomed to all sorts of trivial talents."

The small rip in the blouse was quickly finished, and he started again on another, patiently threading the needle and weaving it in and out of the fabric. Surprisingly, sewing relaxed him very much, he had realized once, and this gave him an excuse to be near Christine, who seemed to have calmed down.

He had spent a good many hours on the streets that night, thinking, walking aimlessly through the slums, considering buying something extravagant and ludicrous but not being able to think of anything. Overcome with shame once again, he had fled from the house and her presence, wanting to be somewhere – anywhere – but with her. Of course she was right; she always seemed to be right about the things that he wanted, and he hated it. She was very angry with him, and his anger was by now as cool as the night air, (after all, it hadn't taken him _that _long to rearrange his music; he had even made improvements in the sorting) but he knew that Christine's anger could last for a very long time. It appeared he always heard that when men bought their wives things, the women forgave and forgot quickly, and he purchased the things that he first laid eyes on. Besides, Christine had been such an excellent girl lately. She was working hard in her lessons and no longer seemed restless. Yes – all things considered, he felt that their relationship was making excellent progress...If he could only stop acting like a complete fool each time they spoke.

As he returned in the late hours of the morning, he realized that his...business matters were now becoming a threat and must be taken care of accordingly. It was a very messy, yet necessary, business, but he couldn't admit that it was done without satisfaction. Finally, aching and dirty, he returned home and cautiously entered her bedroom, placing her gifts where she would see them and trying not to steal too many glances at her sleeping form.

After he cleaned himself up, he left his bedroom to find Christine sewing on the couch, looking as delightful as ever, and he wasn't able to resist spending much-needed time with her. She smoothed the repaired clothing in her lap, examining the stitches and finding them to blend in flawlessly with the others. Erik was very quiet, his eyes fixed on his work, though she could tell his mind was elsewhere.

"What are you thinking about?" she thoughtlessly asked and then wondered if that had been the best question to ask.

He paused slightly, tilting his head a bit and then going back to work. "You," was his very quiet answer. The masked man broke the thread and pulled on the seam to test the strength of the stitches. When he was satisfied, he put the skirt into Christine's hands and took out the last garment.

"I care for you very much," he suddenly said, looking at the rip. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the thread through the needle's eye one last time.

Christine had been fighting with herself during the two blouses, a dressing gown, and her French Braid jacket. As he started patiently on her last skirt, she cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"Erik, I..." She swallowed uncomfortably and watched his hands work as she said, "I...was very lost. I'm not sure what...what I would have done if you...hadn't found me."

The only sound for quite a while was the ruffling of her skirt as he adjusted it to his liking. Erik noticed that she did not apologize, nor did she thank him for finding her; however, he did not dwell on that long. Christine waited impatiently for an answer, uncaring of her still-hurting finger and the fact that Erik was still better than she in things that women should be better at. He contemplated the stitches once again.

"Your young man gets very lost, too," he muttered absent-mindedly, and then wondered if that was, quite possibly, the _worst _thing to have said, for Christine immediately drew near.

"What? He does?" she enquired, trying not to sound too eager and yet failing dismally. "Is he all right, Erik? Is he?"

"Erik's patience with him has grown too thin," he supplied, putting the skirt into the basket with the others. "He hates having to always turn him around and lead him back into the Opera House. It takes much time and effort, yet Christine's young man is quite relentless. Erik hates always being away from home on his account."

"But is he all right?" Christine pressed, putting her hand on Erik's arm in hopes to persuade him.

Erik looked at it for a minute, spotting her golden wedding band resting prettily on her finger. "He is alive," Erik finally admitted.

Christine gave the first genuine and true smile that he had seen in days, and she gathered up her clothing, positively glowing with happiness. She stood with the basket resting against her hip, still with that joyful smile on her lips.

"Thank you, Erik," she said earnestly. "I...Thank you."

The masked man was quite tempted to throw something large and heavy the moment her door snapped shut, but he simply sat in his chair stiffly, staring into the empty and cold fireplace. What he would give for her to smile like that at the mere thought of him. The thought, however, was indeed laughable.


	8. Chapter 8

Christine was elated for several days after Erik's mention of Raoul. She positively flew about the house, laughing, smiling, singing, and doing everything Erik wished her to do with a light glowing from her. She knew that it was only a matter of time, now. Raoul, dear, loving Raoul, was going to come find her, and then they would leave Paris, leave France, and live a quiet, happy life somewhere secret. Often she found herself daydreaming about it, simply standing and smiling at nothing in particular.

If there was anything to make Erik even more upset, it was this. He couldn't stand watching or listening to Christine as she sang and washed the dishes. Perhaps if the happiness had been because of _him_, then he would adore just being near her, but he shut himself up in his room for hours at a time, sullen and angry, taking pleasure in the fact that he knew horrible things that Christine would know...soon enough.

The water was by now cold, but it didn't seem to bother the young woman as she hummed a lullaby under her breath and finished the last dish. It seemed that they never had dirty dishes anymore, for it was one of her only ways to spend the time. His house was now immaculate, and the only thing that was untidy was his pile of music, which she hadn't put a finger on since their argument. As the last dish was put away, she paused for a moment before smiling and pulling them out once again.

Minutes passed and she began another song, singing it with a laugh in her voice. Erik finally entered half a minute later, looking rather frustrated.

"Christine, I'm trying to – what are you doing?"

She paused and looked down at the food that was scattered all over the table. "I'm making supper," she said plainly. "It won't be ready for a while, I'm afraid."

Erik approached warily, looking at the things she was using and resisting the urge to put her out of the kitchen.

"What are you making?" he asked, picking up an onion and then some cheese and cinnamon.

Christine hesitated for a moment before leaning over the great bowl that held their meal. "Some type of soup," she replied. Erik leaned over the bowl and grimaced at the watery concoction that it held.

"Mama Valerius taught me," she continued, awkwardly cutting up the onion. The knife appeared to be too large for her hands, and it kept slipping from her grip. Erik didn't doubt that she would end up cutting her fingers off, so he gently took it and expertly finished dicing the onion.

"I'm sure she did," he muttered to himself, laying aside the knife and removing his gloves. "Would you like help?" he then politely offered Christine, who shook her head.

"No, I – "

"Nonsense," he quickly objected, cutting off her refusal and pouring the onions into the bowl. "I insist." He knew that he would end up choking down some of this simply to please her, and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if she burst into tears because he wasn't able to stomach her cooking. No, helping her make it more edible would be the better solution.

The two worked in near-silence, with Erik occasionally asking, 'What do I put in next?' to placate her, and then adding something else while she wasn't looking. It ended up looking something like chowder, which cooked surprisingly quickly, and the new couple sat down at the table, Christine wearing a smile once again. She dished up two bowls and pushed one toward Erik, who took it gingerly. It still smelled revolting. Unfortunately, he hadn't shown up in time to save her from ruining the base, which had tainted the entire thing. They ate in an awkward silence, though he continued to glance at Christine and then glowered because she was sitting in her own joy. He stirred the soup around for a minute before finally looking up at her. Erik resisted sighing and put down his spoon with an air of finality before saying,

"Your young man isn't rescuing you, Christine."

The young woman stilled slightly, her smile slipping from her lips, and she glanced up at Erik.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied, adjusting her napkin.

"He will not find you, Christine. Erik does not wish it, and therefore it will not be so."

"What do you mean?" she asked shakily, setting down her utensil and gripping the edges of the table.

"Erik has made sure that he cannot take you away again," the man said quietly, taking his napkin from his lap.

Christine began to tremble slightly as she said, her voice getting louder and shriller with each word, "What do you mean, Erik? Erik! What are you talking about? Stop – stop lying! Stop it!"

Erik remained very calm, looking at her expressionlessly and replying, "He cannot take you from me again, I promise you."

The new bride leapt to her feet, hot tears beginning to scorch her cheeks, though she did not notice. "Stop lying!" she shrieked. "Stop lying to me!" Her bowl was overturned, and the soup slithered everywhere. Christine made to leave, but instead ran into her chair and fell in a very unladylike manner, her skirts flying, and Erik caught a glimpse of her feet that were level with the table until they hit the floor. There was a moment of surprised silence, and then he heard her burst into sobs. He approached cautiously, finding her in an unromantic heap on the floor, and he tried not to care that her hemline rested somewhere just below her knees. Instead he knelt down next to her, watching her hair spill over her shoulders and notice that it shook from the cries.

He did not say anything for several minutes and instead sat there patiently, listening to her have a good cry and then feeling relieved when it faded away into muffled hiccoughs.

"You lied to me," Christine sniffled into her arms. "You...you said he was alive!"

"Erik did not lie," he replied calmly. "He is alive."

Christine pulled her face from her arms and looked at him almost rapturously.

"He is?" Pulling herself to her knees, she gazed at Erik imploringly and continued, "I don't understand, Erik. What do you mean? Where is Raoul?"

The masked man stared at Christine, who could not help giving a slight shudder. He rose gracefully to his feet, still looking at his virgin wife and wishing to shake her until her neck snapped.

"Your young man will not come for you," he declared horribly, moving to his bedroom. "You will remain Erik's bride until the day you die, Christine – that he swears!" His door slammed shut, and Christine jumped slightly before miserably returning to her own room.

* * *

**I'm really posting the next chapter tomorrow night, because this is short once again, and the next one is longer...if I remember correctly. Yes. Uber thanks.**


	9. Chapter 9

Two days after Erik's outburst, Christine knew she wouldn't be able to handle the fact that she had no idea where Raoul was, nor if he was hurt...or even alive. She swallowed harshly before returning to her task of scrubbing the table. It was already spotless, yet she did it again and again, working in a blank stupor and still trying not to dwell on the fact that Erik could very well be correct and Raoul would not find her.

There was one thing she did appreciate about Erik; when he was in a calm state of mind, when he was most relaxed and himself, he seemed to know exactly what to do, for he entered the kitchen quietly and took the rag away from her. She allowed herself to be steered out of the room and toward the couch, where he sat her down and then played such a lovely song that she sighed contentedly when it was over. Erik sat on his bench still, staring at the keys and running his long fingers over each one lovingly before standing. He was quite unsure of what to do with himself for a few moments, but then he quickly selected a book and sat down across from Christine, who remained where she was. With no music to distract her, she began to get the all-familiar feeling that she always produced when she was about to do or say something reckless.

Erik seemed to be deeply immersed in his book; he did not look up at her once and was soon already about one-third of the way into it. Christine nervously pulled her hair over her shoulders and passed a shaking hand over her sleeves to smooth out the wrinkles. Minutes passed by in complete silence.

As she sat opposite him, he spared one brief look at her before quickly returning to his book, leisurely turning the page and starting on the next paragraph. Christine sat in her hesitant silence, twisting the red skirts anxiously and finding her difficulty to swallow rather irksome. She knew that she had battled with herself too many times to quail now, and, with dread ever mounting in her stomach, she cleared her throat softly. Erik allowed her another glance, and, when she continued to be silent, he began to read once again.

"Erik," she choked out, feeling as if her heart had expanded to an abnormal size and was pounding everywhere in her chest.

He carefully marked his page before clutching the book in his lap and giving Christine his undivided attention, as if that was the very thing he had wanted to do all along. Christine, finding the air difficult to come by, tried not to let out little choking gasps as she started,

"Erik, I – I need to talk to you."

While she steeled herself, he calmly said, "I am listening."

"Well, it's about – Erik, it's about Rao – Vicomte de Chagny," she hastily corrected herself, feeling his invisible eyebrow rise at the intimacy of his first name. After all, she was a married woman now, and referring to another man like that, especially in Erik's presence, was simply stupid.

"What about him?" Erik snarled angrily. "Erik does not wish to hear anymore of him; you are married, and you shouldn't pine after other men. It is highly unbecoming in a wife."

"Erik, where is he?" she demanded, dragging her unwilling courage to the surface. "I don't understand what you meant! Is he safe, Erik? Is he alive? Please..." She could hear the desperate whine in her voice and wondered if that was the best tactic to use.

"I have already told you – many times, you silly girl," he frowned, and she noticed how tightly he was clenching his book. "He is alive, and in a place where he will not steal you again."

"Is he safe?" she inquired, moving closer, and, to her surprise, Erik cowered slightly at her nearness. "Is he all right, Erik?"

"That depends on...on what Christine thinks is 'all right,'" he mumbled. "I find him perfectly healthy and in excellent condition."

"I don't believe you!" Christine said angrily, her entire frame trembling. "What have you done to him, Erik?"

She fell to his feet dramatically, and Erik wondered if, perhaps, the countless operas had gone to her head. However, he replied,

"It is no concern of mine if you believe me or not. I do what I wish and couldn't care less what others think of me."

"Even what _I _think of you?" She lifted her head and glared at him. "Erik, Raoul is my friend, and I must know that he is safe! Wouldn't you do the same for a friend?"

"I have never had friends," he said stonily, looking down on her like some imperious god. "I'm sorry to say that I cannot sympathize with you, my dear."

"Erik," she pleaded. This time _she _was clutching at him, begging, entreating, whining and groveling. "Erik, _please_! You must let me see him." Her fingers twisted into the material of his trousers. "Let me see him, Erik, and I swear that I will be your wife. I will never think of him again after I know that he is alive and safe."

The new husband stood and walked to the other side of the room, leaving his bride on the floor with earnest tears in the corners of her eyes.

"Erik thinks he deserves something from his wife for such a luxury," he said, looking at the wall with his hands behind his back.

"I'll give you anything," she whispered, pushing herself to her knees.

He was quiet for a few moments, his head tilted slightly to the side, and his dark hair shone slightly in the dim light. From the back, he did not look much different from other men, despite his obvious thin frame and the tie of his mask. Christine waited in anxious silence, swallowing her tears, and he finally turned to face her.

"I want a kiss," he stated plainly, ignoring the fact that her cheeks were instantly drained of their flush and her eyes widened. "Erik has only had one his whole life, and he thinks that they are very pleasant things."

She tried not to remember the fact that it was _she _who had kissed him that dreadful night: in this very room, actually, and she remembered the deep compassion she had felt for the crushed man who laid at her feet and bathed them with his tears. The compassion had vanished the day that he took her once again; she could not feel it now. Her only thoughts were of Raoul, and the fact that she had no idea where he was. If she pressed her lips to his horrible forehead once again, that second would purchase her chance to see her beloved for the last time. It seemed such a terrible price to pay, and she pulled herself to her feet, stabling her fragile nerves.

Erik was by her side quickly, clutching her hands with fervent adoration. "Oh, please, Christine. Kiss me and I will allow you to see your young man once more." So saying, he removed his mask, and the ugly sight nearly caused her to scream. She had not seen his horrible face in months. Erik kept her upright, refusing to release her hands, and he bent down slightly. Closing her eyes and trying desperately to imagine Raoul in his place, she pressed her lips to his cold forehead once again. It lasted for only a second, yet Christine pulled away sharply as if she had been there for an eternity. To her further horror, Erik embraced her fully, his skeletal arms wrapped about her waist.

"My wife is so good to me," he muttered, tangling his corpse hands into her hair. "I will now take you to see your young man one last time."

Christine pulled away at the last remark and said, "I'm ready."

Erik sighed and tugged Christine into his bedroom, where he collected his gloves, hat, and cloak. The young woman tried not to even look at his horrible coffin and stood awkwardly in the middle while Erik gathered his things and pushed aside a thick drapery that hid his stone walls.

"He will be moved tonight," Erik told her, grabbing her hand and pulling her through a door that appeared at his touch. "It won't do for either of us if you go traipsing about the dungeons without a guide. You will not find him."

Christine nodded in the pitch-black, though she knew that he could see perfectly, so she didn't bother to utter anything. Her poor Raoul...locked away in the dark and filthy dungeons. She would need to persuade Erik to release him. Raoul deserved nothing like this.

The entire tunnel was completely black; Christine couldn't resist moving closer to Erik, who was walking at such a fast pace that she was nearly running to keep up with him. He only held tighter when she tripped once or twice, and he remained silent until he stopped completely in front of a solid wall.

A clicking sound rang in her ears, followed by a loud creak, and then his hand released hers. She stood in absolute uncertainty until she felt his hands push her forward, and she stumbled into what she perceived as a room. It was dark, and she covered her mouth as the smell of sweat and blood filled her nose.

"I can't see anything," she said faintly, groping the air in quiet desperation.

"Allow me to assist you," came Erik's voice from behind her. She turned to see him create a flame with seemingly no assistance. It rested plaintively in his palm, but she took no time to marvel, instead turning around and hearing a low moan. She gave a small cry at the sight.

Raoul was on the floor, his wrists chained to the wall and his eyes closed against the light in a most defeated manner. His clothing was torn and dirty, and he had a line of dried blood going down his cheek and neck. Throwing away all cares and caution, Christine dropped to her knees and embraced him, the tears beginning to spill and drip onto his face. He slurred her name and cracked open his eyes.

"Yes, yes, love," she whispered, smoothing his hair and putting her hand on his cheek. He leaned into it tiredly. She forgot entirely about Erik until she pressed her lips to Raoul's forehead tenderly, hearing him exhale softly, and she smiled happily. The light was immediately extinguished, and she was jerked up so roughly that she shrieked in pain. Erik shoved her out of the room and slammed the door shut; Christine whimpered slightly as he clenched her forearms and began to forcefully push her back to the house.

He didn't stop when she tripped over her hemline and instead jerked her back upright, ignoring her gasping cries and frantic apologies. The bright lights hurt her eyes, and she shielded them from their accusatory glares, and especially from Erik's burning eyes. She was kneeling in the middle of the room, having been thrust down by her husband's angry hands, and she made no move, shivering like a frightened little bird with silent tears building up and spilling occasionally.

Erik paced in front of her, and she watched his polished shoes walk back and forth. He had his hands behind his back, examining Christine like a hawk searching its prey. It seemed as if his staring would never end, until, quite suddenly, he was at his bedroom door. Letting out a frightened squeak, Christine was between him and the wood with speed that surprised them both, stopping his hand in midair as he reached for the knob. He gazed at her coolly, silent in his anger, and she swallowed nervously.

"What are you going to do with him?" she said, so quietly that it was really a whisper.

He paused for a moment, leaning his head a little to the right. "Whatever I can think of. Erik wants your young man to feel the pain that Erik feels...It hurts so much, Christine, and I must say that it is entirely your fault."

"Yes!" she suddenly cried, nearly clutching his jacket in desperation but instead bringing her hands to bury themselves into the material of her skirt. "It's _my _fault, Erik! Punish me – do whatever you want with me. Raoul never did anything wrong, Erik; he doesn't deserve this! _Please_!" She was shouting now, her face becoming very red and her body trembling with her excited emotions.

Erik said nothing, nor did his eyes betray any emotion whatsoever. He hardly blinked during her entire monologue, nor did he move from his position. Quietly, as if picking up a newspaper, he grabbed her waist, lifted her from the floor, and moved her from his path; he then reached for the knob once again, twisting and opening the door before feeling Christine clutch to his sleeve in a very panicked manner.

"Erik," she gasped, "Erik, _I'm begging you_. I'll do anything! I'll – I'll kiss you again!"

He stiffened at the last promise, and Christine's head was pounding with her rhythmic praying. Her fingers inched up his arm to rest on his shoulder: this was the longest time she had willingly touched him, and he sucked in a deep breath, feeling her small hand rest on his shoulder. He closed the door (though he had to admit it was done grudgingly) and faced Christine, whose flushed color had somewhat disappeared.

"I'll kiss you," she begged, looking straight into his eyes for once and repeated, "I'll kiss you; just let Raoul go, and he will disappear forever. You will never worry about him again, and I will never think of him again. I will kiss you..." She trailed off feebly, looking at her husband as if he was her cruel and impatient judge in hell itself.

As her eyes traveled up to his forehead and her hands shakily reached for his mask, he clasped them in his own, looking at her with his unnerving and blank stare.

"I want a real kiss," was his quiet reply.

He knew that he would never be able to rid himself of the image of her little face; she looked so broken and miserable that he was sorely tempted to run away and never return. He had heard that America was flourishing madly...Hundreds of miles away across the ocean was something that he considered for a moment.

Her hands, which had been trembling before, were now shaking so violently that she could not remove his mask alone. He untied it calmly, letting her take it and drop it on the floor. Seconds trickled by. The two stared at each other, Erik always waiting, and Christine building up her determination. She could no longer pretend _not _to understand what was happening, and she glanced nervously at his lips before leaning in. Once again, Erik was obliged to lean down.

It was as dispassionate and emotionless as if Christine had been pressing her lips to a smooth stone. His lips certainly _felt _that way. Their hands were hanging by their sides, and the only things touching were their lips. She stayed in her awkward position for several seconds before Erik noticed that her shaking had become rhythmic; she was beginning to sob against him, and he was the one to pull away. Christine covered her face with her hands and fell to the floor at his feet once again, her cries muffled and yet they were piercing every inch of him. Leaving Christine to sob, he quietly walked into his room and shut the door.


	10. Chapter 10

He was gone for a very, very long time.

Christine could not sleep, nor could she eat. His presence did not linger in the house, and she sat in front of his door, getting up to pace every now and then, anxious and eager. She bit her thumbnail quite often, as she always did when something worried her, before she remembered that Erik had told her that he should never catch her doing that unladylike habit ever again, and she took it away from her mouth, which she had rinsed with water several times. Her lips felt dirty, contaminated, and she licked them sadly. She had always hoped that Raoul would be the first, last, and only person she ever kissed, but now it was not to be. Erik's lips had touched hers, and she could hardly stand the very thought.

Christine was tempted to go to her room, yet she instead sat on the couch, leaning tiredly onto the armrest and staring at his door. He had to come back soon...

She woke in her bed, tucked under the sheets with her shoes on the floor beside her. When she realized that Erik had put her there, she bolted out of her room without even putting on her shoes, and she slid precariously on the smooth stone as she found him in the kitchen. He was just retrieving a plate and didn't turn to look as he said, "Where are your shoes, dear child?"

Christine did not answer and instead calmed herself down. She tended to repeat the same mistake over and over before finally learning a new and better way, and this whole messy business with Raoul had been the epitome of her foolishness. While Erik filled her plate, she straightened her hair and smoothed her dress before sitting at the kitchen table, trying not to breathe excitedly. She said a sweet, "Thank you," when he put the dish in front of her, and he nodded stonily.

"Thank you for the paper," she continued, trying to act nonchalant. She had discovered fresh paper on her desk a few days earlier and had not commented on it until now. Once again, Erik only nodded. She pushed her food around on her plate before nervously saying,

"Where have you been?"

He blinked twice. "Out."

"I've been here," she replied sadly. "Why couldn't I have come?"

"Don't act stupid, Christine," he snapped harshly, and then quieted himself. She was rather hurt by his outburst, yet she could not stop herself now.

"Where did you take him?" was the quiet plea that finally came from her.

"Away from you," he replied evenly. "He will bother us no more. But he is alive," he added hastily, seeing her face turn to horror.

"Why won't you simply tell me?" she asked crossly, folding her arms. "You have what you want; Raoul will not bother us any longer, so there will be no harm in telling me what you did with him."

He left for a moment and returned with a slip of paper that he handed to her. It was proof of a ticket.

"Your young man is sailing once again," he said angrily. "I bought him a trip to America and specifically instructed him to never return. After seeing him situated on his ship, I returned. It was quite a long and tedious day. Now no more on that unpleasant matter, dear. Finish your meal."

Christine swallowed the tears for later tonight when she would be safely tucked up in bed. The knowledge that Raoul would be hundreds and hundreds of miles away was too miserable to dwell on, and she poked unemotionally at her food before foolishly starting again.

"But Raoul might – "

"I said _enough_!" Erik shouted furiously, smashing his fist on the table. "There will be no more of this! That boy's name shall never be uttered in Erik's house again, do you understand me? You are _my _wife now!"

Cowering in her chair, Christine gave a whimper and then a nod before watching him storm off to his organ. They avoided each other the rest of the night; Christine had troubled dreams of Raoul drowning, and, as she tried to save him, she was held back by thick chains that encircled her wrists. Her face was sticky with sweat and tears when she finally shot up in bed.

Erik was entirely different the next morning. His constant mood changes gave her a slight headache, yet she endured his endless praises. He was gently stroking her arm, happily blabbering on about something she couldn't have cared less.

"Erik is so delighted that we are finally alone, Christine," he said eagerly, looking at her rapturously. "His wife is so wonderful; she has given him a kiss, and he cannot think of anything that would please him more." There was an awkward silence, and his hand stopped at her wrist. Christine looked down as his fingers gingerly caressed the skin. His breathing was rather harsh, and he moved his long and thin fingers to her palm.

"Don't touch me!" she spat venomously, tearing her hand away from him. The tender touch had made her feel very hot and wicked, and she felt no guilt in taking her arm away from him. Erik sighed thickly before rubbing his exposed ear, which she had noticed that he always did that when he was agitated about something. He reached for her hand once again, but she did not give it up, and he instead sat sadly next to her.

"Erik is ashamed of his outbursts," he muttered. "I try very hard to cool my temper, especially as my wife is so very gentle and kind. I love you more than you imagine."

Christine felt so warm and guilty as he praised her even in her faults. She swallowed the few tears that threatened to surface and instead lightly touched the back of Erik's hand, just enough to let him know...whatever he took that as. He looked at her and she could tell that his queer smile was coming into play. They were quiet for several minutes, sitting by each other stiffly.

"Erik?" Christine finally spoke. He stroked the back of her hand with his finger to show that he was listening, and in response she casually moved her hand away from his reach, yet it did not escape his glowing eyes, and he was hurt once again.

"What am I to do?" she asked quietly.

He was silent, and she could sense him slip into his controlled anger, though she had no idea why; it was a simple question, was it not?

"You get to leave so many times a day," she pressed. "I sit here with nothing to occupy my hands or mind; I fear of going quite mad."

"Is my music not good enough for you?" he demanded.

Christine frowned slightly: that was not the answer she wanted. "Of course it is, Erik, but I cannot sing every second of the day, neither can you play for me from morning 'til night."

He was growing steadily angrier, and she still had no clue as to why until he spat out, "Is Erik's quiet life not enough for Christine? Perhaps this seems rather droll to an envisioned life of balls and parties, with important guests over for dinner and a bustling, huge house full of people. I do think that one would be prone to the larger house, yet that is hard to come by for one who looks such as I. Christine must find her life as Erik's wife extremely monotonous as compared to a Vicomtesse!"

Christine stood furiously. "Why must you think everything I say refers to Rao – " She cut herself off quickly as he rose to face her, challenging her in his odd way. She, however, could not allow herself to recoil yet.

"I asked a mere question! Regardless of what you think, I do not spend every minute pining after..._him_. I cannot sit in this house with nothing to do anymore; you _must _give me something to do!"

He grabbed her arms in frustration and shook her slightly, yet released her instantly as she cried out in disgust and pain.

"Be a good wife to Erik, and he will let you do anything," he said, his voice getting softer with each word. "I know that your young man cannot steal you away any longer, so I do not have to worry about you being alone."

Christine sniffled slightly. "I _have _been a good wife, have I not?"

Erik was very quiet, staring at her, and she instead looked over his shoulder. A long and bony finger came up to stroke her cheek, but Christine turned away instinctively, and his hand fell. He quickly left her side and strode over to his bedroom door.

"A 'good wife,' indeed," he spat out, and Christine could have cried as he slammed the door shut.


	11. Chapter 11

Contrary to Erik's belief, his manner of living _did _have strange quirks to it. He left, never more than a few hours at a time, and always returned in a high mood, however strange it was. Whatever he was doing seemed to make him tremendously happy, and she would always scowl when he returned, hoping he would notice how unhappy she was to be locked up in the house for days and days.

The strangest thing that happened took place on an inconsequential day. Erik had left only minutes ago, and Christine had settled herself in for a long and unproductive morning, perhaps plunking a few chords out on the piano or pouring over his beautiful fairy tale book that she had discovered only days ago. It was full of magnificent illustrations, and the formatting was simply breathtaking; he knew she adored it, and sometimes he read a few select ones to her, allowing her, like a small girl, to look at the pictures before turning the page.

Just as she took it from the shelf, Erik burst in. She took only a few seconds to look and see that he was in a highly agitated state. As Christine decided that it would be best to return to her own room and wait until he calmed, he extinguished every single light, throwing them into a frightening and claustrophobic pitch-black darkness. Christine couldn't help but give a cry as she heard the locks _click _in response to his touch, and she stumbled into the bookshelf as she attempted to locate the way to her bedroom.

His cold hand encircled her wrist, and he brought her scandalously close to his body. Christine struggled, saying angrily, "Release me at once, Erik! Light the candles!"

Erik's response was to snake a hand over her mouth and drag her into the darkest corner. She screamed into his long fingers, thrashing and kicking, yet he did not appear to notice.

"Erik would have let him in," he muttered, somewhat to himself. "Yet my wife keeps things so clean that it would have been stupid."

Christine asked muffled questions that received no answers, screamed and squirming until Erik was obliged to hold her even more firmly with his other arm, but she still tried to escape as fiercely as she could.

"Be still," he whispered firmly into her ear.

Frustrated of her fruitless efforts, Christine instead held herself stiffly in his awkward and tight embrace, breathing heavily into his palm. After a minute of this, she heard something that was not normal and perked up at the sound.

Footsteps were crunching along the banks; they were heavy and tired-sounding, stopping every so often. When she could tell that the person was right by the house, Erik hissed quietly and pulled her even closer to him, like some possessive reptile, and Christine sighed loudly, trying to communicate her anger.

Suddenly, there was a strange and almost frightening sound. A mechanic moan echoed throughout the house, like the machine that emitted it was old and very nearly dead. It stopped after nearly ten seconds, and Christine heard someone – a man – mutter something under his breath. The language was not one she knew.

"Yes, you should have," Erik muttered into her hair, obviously answering the man's statement.

The leaden footsteps walked away, and, even after all was silent, Erik held her for many more minutes. She could feel his breathing seeping out from under his mask, and it ruffled her hair slightly. Wondering if he had simply forgotten her, she struggled once again, and, incredibly, it worked: Erik immediately drew his arms back to his sides. Christine stumbled away quickly, rubbing her arms and trying to rid herself of the feel of his thin arms around her.

Silently, Erik began to relight every candle, his eyes expressionless and his movements calm. Christine waited impatiently for an explanation, yet he didn't seem keen to give one, and she finally said,

"Who was that?"

Erik didn't pause in his movements and nonchalantly replied, "Who?"

"You know very well!" Christine retorted. "I should like an explanation."

"Erik has had problems with pesky visitors. He does not like them intruding."

Christine sighed angrily, knowing that his response would be the straightest thing she would get for an answer. She picked up the fairy tale book that she had dropped and dusted off the cover carefully.

"I do not know why you need that silly book," Erik suddenly remarked, still flooding the house with light.

"Excuse me?"

"Your life is very much a fairy tale, Christine," he said shortly, turning to face her. "You're held by an ugly monster who keeps a dashing young knight at bay. I don't see why you need more than that."

Christine didn't bother to mention that the knight wasn't able to rescue the damsel, and the two wouldn't live 'happily ever after.' Erik clicked his tongue reprovingly and disappeared through his door.

"Wait! Where are you going?" she asked, hurrying over. "Can I not come, too?"

He gazed down on her sympathetically. "Of course not, you silly child. Erik's business is his own. Now, go read your little book and wait for me to return."

When the door shut, Christine threw away her self-restraint and let out a frustrated shriek, hurling the book at the door. It fell to the floor heavily, smashing in a corner in the process, and she knelt by it quickly.

"Oh," she moaned softly, fingering the damaged edge sadly. "I'm sorry," she continued to whisper to no one. Cradling the book gently, she carried it over to the fainting couch and immersed herself in it the rest of the afternoon, taking great pleasure in rereading the endings, mouthing the words, 'happily ever after' over and over again. Her fingers were constantly running over the pictures of the handsome and tall knight on his white steed. His hair was golden and his eyes were bright, vivid blue. She smiled.

Erik returned when she was beginning to fall asleep, the book still open in her lap. He examined the picture that she had been looking at; a young man was fighting a large and ugly...thing. Unable to stand the sight, he took the book away from her carefully, not at all eager to wake his wife. He always enjoyed the guilty pleasure of carrying her to bed when she dozed off. However, as he slipped his arms around her, she opened her eyes quickly. Erik's arms retreated at once as she gasped at the sight of his ghastly arms enclosing her waist. He remained kneeling by her.

"Perhaps you should go to bed," he said slowly, mournfully, and she nodded, creeping off the couch and hurrying to her room, where the door was shut with a curt _snap_. Erik climbed onto the furniture, feeling her remaining warmth and inhaling her delicious scent. They were the only physical things he could ever get from his wife, and he greedily took it all in as best he could.

The next afternoon, Erik was writing something. Christine had asked what it was, yet received a curt, 'Nothing that concerns you,' and she didn't ask again. As she meandered through the room, the shelf caught her eye, and she realized that she hadn't finished her story from the previous night. When she went to retrieve the book, however, it wasn't in its usual place. Christine searched for it for the next several minutes; she looked through the rest of the books and even under the couches, afraid that it might have fallen there while she was dozing. As this wielded no success, she used her last resort.

"Erik, have you seen my fairy tale book? I was sure that I had left it here last night."

He did not answer for a minute, and she asked again, "Erik, have you seen my – "

"I heard you the first time," he interrupted, folding his letter.

"Well?" she demanded.

After a few moments of contemplation, he said, still never facing her, "I think you should read other books, my pet. It has never done any girl a smidgen of good to fill her head with ridiculous and romanticized ideas about life and love."

"Yes, of course I read other books," she said defiantly. "But I wanted to finish my story. Where is the book?"

He was silent for another minute, testing to see if the ink was dry on the paper and then pouring a drop of wax to seal it up. "Erik has confiscated it."

The breath seemed to be stolen from her lungs, and she grew immeasurably angry. "What? How – how could you? You had no right to – "

"On the contrary," he said calmly. "The book belongs to me, and I no longer want it part of my library."

There was a stunned silence from Christine, and she finally snapped.

"But I _want _it!" she wailed. "You never let me have anything, and when I do find something I like, you take it away from me!" She pulled a book from the shelf and, to show how truly angry she was, she threw it to the floor. Erik finally turned around at the loud _bang_, and he watched with horror as she picked up another one. It joined its brother on the ground quickly.

"I want my book back!" she sobbed pathetically as a third and fourth book were tossed across the room. "I want it back!" When one of the books broke a delicate and rather priceless figurine on his mantle, Erik leapt to his feet. Christine promptly threw a book his direction, her face red and flushed and her hair falling out of its clip as a result of her continued trembling. Erik easily dodged the heavy book and took the next one from her hands, letting it fall to his feet. As she tried to take another one from the shelf, he grabbed her hands and held them tightly in his own.

"Let me go at once!" She pulled her hands fruitlessly, childishly stomping her foot and giving an angry moan. "Release me!"

Erik shook her ever so slightly. "Quiet!" he commanded angrily. "You should be ashamed of yourself! How old are you, Christine?"

She had stopped herself when the first word fell from his lips, and she sniffed, her head hanging low. "Twenty-one," she murmured, feeling searing and embarrassed tears gather in her eyes.

He thrust her hands away from him. "Go lie down this instant. If you continue behaving like a child, I shall treat you as one."

Christine remained where she was, sniffling pitifully with her eyes downcast. Erik was still standing in front of her.

She raised her eyes slowly and said softly, "I never – "

"_Go_!" was his ringing command.

Pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle the next sob, she cried out, "I'm sorry!"

As the door slammed shut and Erik bent down to pick up a book, he dissolved into quiet tears.


	12. Chapter 12

Christine was almost too embarrassed to come out of her room the next day, but her fears were unnecessary, for Erik was nowhere to be found. He didn't return until mid-afternoon, bearing fish and flowers. She took a moment to ponder where he shopped in broad daylight; surely he wouldn't go out in public until dusk or later. However, she said nothing and remained silent on her couch. Erik wordlessly handed her a daisy, which she accepted with good graces.

The daisy was, to her, a mark of the changing seasons. It was now quite hot and stuffy under the Opera House, and more than once she had rolled up her sleeves in order to attempt to cool down. Her longing to go outside and see the bright blue sky became almost unbearable; Erik had not taken her up since her attempted escape, and she lived in a quiet fear that he would never again show her the green grass. Her husband's innate and keen senses told him of her unrest, however, and one day he said:

"You have not asked for a walk in weeks, Christine."

She looked up from her book (the fairy tale book had not been returned, and she had not asked for it since). "No, I haven't. I should very much like one, though."

Erik acquiesced accordingly, and that night she found herself emerging from the Rue Scribe with a happy smile on her lips. It was lovely outside; the buds were now in bloom and the trees were becoming heavy with their green and open leaves. When she remarked on the beauty of it all, Erik only blinked at her, and she fell quiet.

They walked for quite a while. Christine was surprised that he kept strolling next to her, allowing her to wander wherever she pleased. The edges of the sun were peering at them from the tops of the buildings, and soon it disappeared altogether.

Erik was very aware of his almost violent mood swings, yet at times like this, he was not sorry at all. While furious at her only this morning, he was now so deeply in love that he could only stare at her as she walked by his side. Christine was so breathtakingly beautiful, and he considered himself quite a lucky man as he looked at the ring on her left hand. Of course, it hadn't been a customary marriage, yet she had agreed, and here she stood, his living wife, not objecting to take a walk with her husband. The two stopped near a bed of flowers in order for Christine to examine the pretty petals more closely. Erik, completely losing his senses, ran a hand fondly down her back, feeling her shoulder blades through the fabric as her skin gave way to her corset and narrowed at the waist. She pulled away sharply as his hand neared her hips and refused to look at him.

"I'm tired," she said loudly. "I wish to return."

Feeling his hands twitch with anxiety and sheer _want, _Erik decided that it was best for her to be locked up safely in her room at the moment, and he hurried her home, grabbing her arm and pulling her through the tunnels. It would be best if she was put out of sight instantly...yes, that was it...if only the girl would keep up! She tripped over her hem as a result of his haste and fell to her knees. Erik merely scooped her into his arms.

"Put me down at once!" she said, pushing on his chest. "Erik! I can walk; put me down!"

By the time they returned to his house, Christine had driven herself into hysteria, sobbing and screaming at him. Erik stopped in the middle of the grand main room, his breathing ragged and his mind quite blank. When Christine struck his chest once again, he immediately deposited her on the floor, his brain beginning to register once more. He knelt next to her, hesitantly touching her skirt as it rested about her feet.

"Don't cry, sweet Christine," he begged. "There is nothing to cry about."

"You _frightened _me!" she sobbed into her hands. "You wouldn't listen!"

He licked his lips to pass a second and then scooted closer to her, pulling her hands away from her face gently. "Erik does not know where his mind goes sometimes," he said sadly, placing three fingers in her palm and stroking the skin. "You must fear nothing down here, Christine, for it would shatter poor Erik's heart."

After Christine quickly regained possession of her hand, she clasped them in her lap quietly. When Erik wouldn't respect her wishes and slow down during his flight through the tunnels, she began to think that he had something horrible in mind, and she couldn't bear the thought, especially as he began to quicken his pace when they were closer to the lake. She still did not know why he had acted so strangely, and the thought of his large, ugly hands touching her in places that he had no right made her shiver with disgust. He had overstepped his boundaries when he touched her back, and Christine sniffled quietly at the thought. Erik took out his handkerchief and lovingly wiped away the sticky tears, his other hand once again prying; it slid down her cheek and onto her neck, where the fingers curled ever so slightly.

"_Stop touching me_!" she shrieked suddenly, jumping to her feet and fleeing to the bedroom, where she collapsed onto the bed and cried into her pillow. She heard Erik moan pitifully and refused to acknowledge the slight twinge of guilt that plucked her heart. How _dare _he continue to touch her like that! The insufferable man was like a dog that hadn't the faintest idea of knowing when to quit. Didn't he know that she wished for nothing of the sort; he had no right, the scoundrel!

As she hugged the pillow closer, she caught sight of the wedding ring. Her anger was mounting with her shame; she attempted to pull it off, yet the heat from outside and her fit had made her hands clammy and swollen, so she tried unsuccessfully for a few minutes before burying her face into the soft sheets, trying to convince herself that the marriage was in no way binding. She had every right to refuse Erik's touch...Well, that's what she told God that night, although in her heart she knew otherwise.

He was quite calm in his anger the next morning. She knew that her actions had infuriated him, yet neither of them said anything that would trigger a conversation about the night before. He would not come close to her now; her meals were set before she went to the table. Usually Erik liked to place them before her as a chance to be near, but now the plates were already there. If she arrived before he set them down, he would put the dish on the opposite end and leave immediately. Whenever she would draw closer, he would instantly walk somewhere else, even if he was in the middle of a song.

Some nights into this, the heat was so insufferable that Christine had flopped onto the couch in a very unladylike way, her hair pinned up messily and her shoes off. She attempted to cool herself with a makeshift fan from a piece of writing paper and watched as Erik read. He looked in no way uncomfortable.

"Erik?" She knew she had his attention, even though his eyes did not leave the book. "It's unbearably hot down here; couldn't we go for a walk tonight?"

He turned a page and said coldly, "Why must you always complain? Nothing of Erik's is good enough for you. And no, I do not feel like a walk tonight."

"But it's _hot_," she whined, pretending as if his comment hadn't stung.

"Go jump in the lake," he replied evenly, his eyes still fixated on his book. "Perhaps the siren would like some company."

Christine sat still for a moment, her eyes wide and her lower lip trembling. She then promptly burst into tears. When he let her cry uninterrupted for some time, the sobs merely doubled, and she started having difficulty drawing breath.

With a heavy sigh, Erik set the book aside, his pride in its pages, and cautiously approached his wife.

"Why are you so _cruel_?" she cried into her hands.

"Please," he muttered confusedly. "Please, Christine – Christine must stop crying." He touched her wrist hesitantly, and when she did not react, he enclosed it with his hand and pulled her fists away from her eyes; the latter were red and brimming with tears. Once more, Christine tore herself away from his touch angrily.

"Whatever cruelty Erik has, he learned it from his dear Christine," Erik said sadly, staring at his hands.

There was a minute of shocked silence; Christine choked on her sob and held her breath for many seconds. Then, to his complete and utter surprise, Christine suddenly threw herself at him. She sobbed into his shoulder, her arms tight around his neck. Erik sat stiffly, unsure of how exactly to respond. Her body was _so _soft against his, and he could feel his hands creeping to enclose her waist. Trying not to make it too apparent, he gently leaned his head to the side to come to a rest on the top of hers. Her hair smelled intoxicating, and it was kissing his neck in a most unbearable manner. Oxygen seemed hard to obtain; he tried to swallow.

She sniffled against his shoulder for quite some time, every so often pulling Erik closer in order to convince herself that someone was there to hold her. The pressure of her body against his was enough to make him begin to tremble, though not from pain or sorrow. Christine, mistaking the tremors for tears, began to lightly stroke him, and Erik's throat went quite dry.

"Don't cry," she whispered sadly. "I'm sorry, Erik. Please, don't cry..."

As her fingers ran through his thin hair, Erik was busily trying to control himself. His accursed mask was pressing into his cheek, refusing his face the touch of her soft hair, so he tangled his hand in it, feeling the strands caress him softly. In turn, they both released a shuddering sigh, and Christine pulled away from him, wiping away the remaining tears with her wrists. Erik tried in vain to forget the sensation of her body.

"I..." she said softly. "You're right, Erik. I've been so cruel and selfish." Here she hiccoughed on her quiet sob. "I'm sorry," she finally finished in a whisper.

He was sure that he would never master the art of consolation, so he merely said, "Shall I play for you?"

When his wife nodded quietly, he placed a hand on her wrist before taking his place on the piano. The song was soft and gentle, much like their wedding mass and yet so different in its mood; she felt calm and soothed and almost happy when Erik came to kneel at her feet. It was almost like her first night under his roof; tears and anger, followed by his open display of utter devotion. Christine allowed him to run his fingers over her wedding band once or twice.

"Christine is my _living _bride," he breathed, almost to himself. "There she sits, looking so beautiful and kind, and she has his ring on her finger. A _living _wife..."

"Yes, Erik," she sighed wearily. "I am your wife."

They were silent for a moment, and his fingers paused. "Are you a happy wife? For you must be happy to be a living wife."

With unusual grace and self-control, she said, "I – I think I shall retire now."

Erik watched her with his golden eyes as she shut her door softly, and he spent the remainder of the night trying to convince himself of what he had just told her.


	13. Chapter 13

Instead of undressing immediately, Christine laid herself in her bed – the large skirts and all – and thought for a very long time. It was as if Erik had slapped her tonight; his words made a harsh impact on her tired and reluctant mind. How _selfish _she was! Everything she said and did was for her personal benefit and gain; every action, every thought, every time she lifted a finger, it was all for herself, and she buried her face into her arms in shame. Poor Erik; everything he did was for _her_; he played for her, he sang, he read, he cooked and provided, he took her for walks and bought her pretty things.

She didn't cry in response. Christine vowed during those minutes to never cry from self-pity again, and instead she kept herself busy by changing into her nightgown and pulling back the sheets. As she combed her hair, she quietly reflected. Raoul was quite gone; even if he was to return, it would take months. There was no chance of escape, and an even smaller chance of release. Erik was now the only thing in her life, and, as much the fact stung her pride, Christine needed someone to reach out to. She had to have human companionship and affection if she was to continue, for she had had it all her life, and Christine trembled to think that this human attachment would come from the man who had hurt her so many times.

_Have _you_ hurt him less_? a snide voice whispered.

The brush slammed into the vanity loudly as she glared at her reflection. When she clambered into bed in a high temper, she paused as she heard Erik's feet stop at her door. When the knob twisted slowly, she quickly sat in the bed and pulled the sheets up to her chin. He appeared very upset to find her still awake.

"I – Erik apologizes," he said quickly, looking away. "He was only...only coming to check in on you, he swears."

"I know," she said honestly.

"He would never hurt you, Christine," he continued. "Erik was only making sure that you were safe."

"I understand, Erik," Christine replied patiently, for she knew that Erik would never come in for...other things. "Goodnight."

"Yes – yes, goodnight, Christine. I hope you sleep well." With that, the door snapped shut hurriedly, and Christine settled herself in for a very long and sleepless night.

One quiet afternoon, Erik informed her of their attendance to the opera that very night. She looked up quickly from the puzzle with which she was occupied and smiled graciously before returning to it. Erik had given it to her this morning; it was nothing more than a collection of dots and lines on a piece of paper, and he told her that the secret was to get a whole line through them all without lifting the pen, and, if she succeeded, it would make a beautiful picture. She had been trying for nearly an hour now, and it was frustrating her to no end.

"Erik!" she suddenly said happily, "I did it!"

He dropped his strange tool that he was repairing and came close to examine.

"No, no, my darling," he said, pointing a long finger to the paper. "You have missed two over here; shall I show you how?"

She took the paper away from him quickly. "No! I mean – no, thank you. I can do it myself."

He gave a shrug of his thin shoulders. "Call if you would like assistance."

To his surprise, she worked on his puzzle until supper, getting up only a few times to stretch her legs and pace around the room. She was reluctant to leave it to eat, and even more reluctant to change for her outing.

"I'm very close," she sighed, scribbling out her last failed attempt and starting again. "I know I am."

"Perhaps I can schedule for another night," he supplied indifferently, clearing away the dishes. Christine looked up quickly.

"No, please don't take the trouble! I will dress at once." He didn't fail to notice that she took the paper with her.

Finishing his necessities before their outing, Erik gave a brief, idiotic-looking grin. Christine had been such a good wife, lately. Ever since their last heated argument, she was always asking what _he _wanted: if he would like to sing this song instead of her favorite, if he would rather play something else for her, if he wanted her to clean something, if he preferred something else for supper that night. She still hadn't moved to often physical contact, yet once she took his hand in assistance and even smoothed the shoulders of his jacket. That simple act kept him ecstatic for many days.

She looked beautiful when she emerged, still clutching that ridiculous puzzle. He wasn't sure he would have given it to her if he knew it had gone to her head like that. A chuckle nearly escaped when he saw her crestfallen face as he gently pried it from her fingers and set it down on the table.

"Will I be able to work on it later?" she asked, looking sadly at it.

"Of course, my love," he said, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone; Christine, however, still looked doubtful.

The walk to the surface was long and tedious. The young woman couldn't understand how Erik could make the journey every day – many times a day, in fact. Some of the long climbs were exhausting, and Erik was obliged to wait while she caught her breath. They had to ascend even farther up to make their way to Box Five, and every magic trap door or appearing wall soon became a blur to her eyes. It seemed like decades before Erik finally halted and whispered,

"Rest here, my Christine. Erik will return shortly."

She felt him vanish from her side, and, now left completely alone in a dark tunnel, she shivered and leaned against the wall for support. Many minutes passed slowly, but his glowing eyes never returned.

"Erik?" she whispered hesitantly. "Erik!"

The silence pressed on her until she heard a slight scuffle, and she whispered her husband's name once again. Then, quite suddenly, something furry brushed her ankle. Christine emitted a muffled and choked shriek before lifting her skirts and running...straight into Erik's arms, her face smothered in his expensive white shirt. They parted hastily.

"A...a rat, I think," she confessed quietly.

Erik gently took her elbow and tugged her farther down the tunnel. "I apologize, Christine. I was merely fetching you a footstool."

There was silence, and Erik, to cover up her lack of a response, opened the hidden door before pulling her through. Christine inhaled sharply at the brilliant lights that hit her rudely. While the thin man escorted her to the large and comfortable seat, her eyes ran over the glittering audience and rested on the stage. How glorious it looked! It was magnificent, beautiful, and her lips curled into a true and happy smile.

"Do you miss it very much?" Erik asked quietly.

To his surprise, she did not answer with her automatic and usual 'Yes' or 'No.' She sat and contemplated the question for a moment.

"I suppose not. I think my time on the stage is over, and I can accept that."

She then took up the playbill and took to perusing it while Erik examined her fondly. Even as the curtain swept from the stage and the opera started, he still watched her, taking delight in her contrasting expressions of emotion that echoed the story; joy, love, pain, sorrow...all were evident on her perfect and angelic face. He had no real interest in the production. As a result of his recent nuptials, he had been so involved in his married life that he hadn't the time nor energy to put much input into the opera. There were serious flaws that he didn't care to point out to Christine, who seemed enraptured. The diva was...terrible. She wasn't as horrible as _La Carlotta _– thank the heavens and sky – yet Christine could have easily sung circles around her. To his surprise, she turned and smiled almost coquettishly at him.

"Stop, Erik," was her small giggle.

"Excuse me?" This was the first time she had treated him...as such.

"I know what you're thinking about her. The poor girl; I think she's wonderful, and she's obviously scared silly." She sensed him give a very grim and an almost humorous smile.

"If you wish," he replied indifferently, turning his gaze to the stage, which was alight and dancing with brilliant costumes, lights, and sets. The soprano _was _frightened horrifically. When the time came for her show-stopping solo, Erik actually saw her knees buckle slightly under her skirts. He double-checked the playbill: the girl was an understudy, and this was her first performance as such. His mood darkened slightly. He had wanted to treat Christine to a magnificent and flawless show. The two were now stuck with a poor excuse for a performer.

After the curtains finally hid the cast, the audience grew into a loud applause, and the soprano finally made her relieved bow before hurrying offstage once again. Christine clapped graciously and smiled again at Erik's morose expression.

They had only a small discussion on the way back; Erik asked her opinion, and she gave it lightly and conversationally, yet the two soon fell into their reflective silences. Erik wondered what Christine was thinking about, and she wondered what he was thinking about. The cool leather of his gloves seemed to stick to her skin, refusing to release her hand throughout the long walk. When they reached the lake, they parted so Erik could ready the boat. She ignored Erik's hand for assistance and climbed in. However, the boat was unsteady, and it tipped precariously, pitching her to the side.

The dark and cold water immediately embraced her cruelly, and her shriek was cut off by a mouthful of water. Her skirts were swirling, dragging, so heavy she could hardly kick her legs to crawl back. Something was grabbing her waist, and, for one foolish moment, her wits left her, for she immediately began to struggle, thinking the siren was coming to drag her to the depths, like Erik had always warned. However, the thing would not relinquish its grip, and soon Christine was pulled up, heaving as she took in a deep lungful of icy and refreshing air. Splashing noisily, Erik dragged her back to the shore, where she laid for several minutes, coughing up the remaining water and restoring her breathing to normal. Erik sat next to her, pulling her wet hair away from her neck and face, and his bony fingers seemed unusually hot against her skin as they trailed across her jaw and throat. He was silent.

"Th – thank you," she finally spluttered, to which she received no answer. The whole ordeal must have lasted at the most ten seconds, yet Christine was sure she had been under the water for centuries, and it took another century for Erik to drag her back out. After another minute, she started to shiver fiercely. When Erik stood, she sloshed to her feet also, feeling the water run down her neck and arms. Christine sheepishly accepted his hand and clumsily tottered into the boat, her skirts pooling at the bottom. The masked man rowed quickly, anxious to get his wife inside before she fell ill from exposure. Christine wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. Once again, she put her hand in his shamefacedly to let him assist her graceless stumble inside.

Instead of heading straight to her room, she stood in the middle, dripping onto his expensive carpets, while he flitted about and flooded the entire room with light. He was soaking, too, and she felt hotter than ever when she noticed how his trousers hugged his legs when wet. His hair was plastered all over his mask, and she imagined that she looked a great deal worse, for she had been completely immersed, while he had only splashed around a great deal to fetch her out.

"You should change, dear Christine," he said smoothly. "I will light a fire if it will please you."

Without a word, she fixed her gaze ahead determinedly and hurried to her room. The dress was hard to peel off. She didn't want to return to Erik, but her bedroom's chilliness was enhanced by her cold skin, and the sheets themselves were like large blocks of ice. After clipping up her damp hair, donning a nightgown, and wrapping a dressing gown around herself nervously, she emerged. Erik was leaning over the fireplace, stroking it calmly; a bundle of wood had suddenly appeared by it. The couple had never shared a fire before.

He was almost afraid to turn around and see Christine dressed in such intimate apparel. Her state after the lake had almost been his undoing. The weight of the water had satiated her dress, and the cut was made in such a way that the lace surrounding her neckline had been so soaked with water that it fell, exposing cleavage: her glistening breast was just enough to send his mind into a frenzy. The two sat in silence. He could sense Christine relax gradually, yet he remained rigid, stiff, sitting in his armchair, clenching the armrests, and staring into the fire, afraid to look at his bride. Sometime later, Christine bade him a quiet 'goodnight' and another 'thank you' before returning to her own room. He remained where he was.

Erik could have easily caught her as she fell into the freezing water. All he would have had to do was extend his arms and catch her. And yet, the monster in his mind that he always locked away when Christine was around escaped and watched with sick satisfaction as she plummeted into the black water. It was some kind of twisted reward for Christine for refusing his assistance, and his monster sniggered quietly, _Ha ha_, _Christine_. _Ha ha_. It wasn't until he saw she was having trouble surfacing that he jumped in after her, brutally locking his monster away once again, this time doubling the locks and chains. Erik sighed and leaned forward in his chair, his hand coming up to rub his ear.

As he sat, Erik realized that this was the first day they had not argued about something. Every day the two fought about little, stupid things for which he would later grovel at her feet and apologize, even if it was she who initiated the fight and was wrong. It was a strange day.

But at least it was a start.


	14. Chapter 14

_It_'_s hardly something you should worry yourself over_.

Yes, I know that, but there's nothing wrong with it, is there?

_No_, _nothing_, _aside from the fact that you_'_re concerned about the man who ruined all your chances for happiness_.

But he _wants _me to be happy.

_He isn_'_t doing an exactly splendid job_, _is he_?

He tries; he wants what's best for me.

_Ah_, _so kidnapping and torture are now considered good things for a young woman_.

It isn't torture. He wants what I want, yet sometimes he's blinded by his own selfishness. He can't help himself; that's the way he's lived.

_Rationalization was never one of your strongest suits_, _Christine_.

It had now been three hours and forty-eight minutes. Christine knew this because of the clock that now rested on the mantelpiece. She had whined, complained, and irritated Erik so much over it that he went out in the middle of the night and returned with one, glaring at her as he wound it up.

Now, it was once again the middle of the night. It was unusual for him to suddenly disappear at this hour. He was usually gone only in the mornings. With mounting anxiety, Christine had taken to sitting in the front room, a shawl wrapped around her dressing gown, watching the clock tick away. When she told herself that it was only for herself that she was concerned (after all, if he never returned, how was she to leave this place?), she immediately felt sickened with her own attitude. Erik had seemed to wake up one morning a new person. He filled her days: singing, teaching, reading, telling stories, giving her things to keep her mind occupied. Christine clung to each activity desperately, throwing herself into each one and trying to give him _something _in return.

No matter what she said or thought, in the musty corners of her heart she was highly thankful. She had never told him that. However, his nighttime outing shouldn't perturb her; the young woman fiercely told herself that she should be in bed. It was silly of her to come out, anyway. All she had wanted was a glass of water and, perhaps, a word or two from Erik. Christine panicked slightly when she couldn't find him anywhere. Where could he be in the middle of the night?

Three hours and fifty-two minutes.

Christine blinked. What a silly girl! She was literally counting the seconds, waiting for him to return, and she decided to go back to bed and forget this whole asinine affair. Nothing budged; she remained mute on the couch, her feet tucked up underneath her for warmth, staring at the clock, whose hands seemed to be moving exceptionally slowly.

At four hours and twelve minutes, there was a creak from the door, and Erik walked in, sighing and pulling off his hat. He looked exhausted, but at the sight of Christine sitting on his couch, he started and blinked at her.

"Is everything quite all right?" he asked cordially.

She nodded silently, staring at him. For the first time, Erik felt uncomfortable with her gaze. Having nothing in his hands, he instead fiddled with his hat, running his fingers over the brim and looking right back at Christine.

"You were gone a long time," she said hollowly.

"Yes," the man agreed, still disconcerted. "I had...errands."

"What kind?"

Erik lifted an unseen eyebrow and said curtly, "Errands which do not concern young girls. Now, run off to bed, darling. It's late."

Christine sat still. "Where did you go?" The natural feelings in a bitter woman were springing to the forefront: where had he gone that she couldn't? Why wouldn't he tell her what he had been doing? Why did he look so uncomfortable? Why was he sending her to bed? Didn't he adore her? Shouldn't he want to talk with her, be with her, as much as possible?

Then again...she knew what he wanted. She kept him from her bed with more viciousness than she had ever done with anything before. Perhaps Erik had grown tired of her reluctance! Perhaps...perhaps his loneliness had driven him to desperation, and he had traveled to the lowest slums of Paris in search of company. Her cheeks turned fiery red at the thought...but not with embarrassment. Christine realized it was from harsh jealousy: Erik loved _her_, and only _her_! He would not pay some ragged harlot to replace her (at the thought of the price he would have had to pay, she gave a soft and wicked smirk).

The man had no idea what was going on in his wife's pretty head. She was positively glaring at him, and he hadn't the foggiest idea why. He had merely run some late-night errands and then took to haunting the upper floors. Time had slipped away from him. Besides, he didn't even imagine that Christine would notice. She would be tucked up in bed, asleep, with dreams so sweet that he could only envy. However, he was reluctant to tell her, for his errands were not of a...pleasant...nature (blackmailing and such was not something to be talked about in a casual conversation), and he had spooked the ballet tarts silly. The upper floors would not be permitted to forget about the Opera Ghost.

"Go to bed, Christine," he said frowningly; this was the longest time she had defied him, and her refusal irked him.

"First answer my question," she declared boldly, pulling her feet out and standing unsteadily; four hours of stiffly sitting did not go well with her legs, yet she stood rebelliously, facing a cold-blooded murderer with anger and bitterness mounting in her face. The two stood, each one positively lethal, eyeing the other with angry wariness.

Until, quite suddenly, Christine giggled.

Erik wondered if something in her mind had suddenly unhinged itself. She laughed so hard she doubled over. She laughed until tears came to her eyes. She laughed with such earnestness that she had to sit down. When the young woman finally composed herself, she breathed deeply and smiled.

"I think you're rubbing off on me," she chided lightly. "This was a ridiculous argument."

Erik merely blinked. _His _fists were still clenched, though he relaxed them forcefully; it took more than a few seconds to cool him when he was riled up. Christine sighed, pulled her dressing gown around herself tightly, and drifted off to bed without another word.

The man stood for many more minutes. He would _never _understand women.

Although it was hard to get the thought of Erik's late-night outing from her mind, Christine finally accepted the fact that she probably would never know where he went, and she instead focused on her married life. It was a poor excuse for one if anything.

Erik was still trying desperately to keep her entertained. He brought her newspapers a few times a week, and Christine devoured every section, first flipping to the social pages, each time a swarm of butterflies would gather in her stomach as she scanned the titles. She was looking for any de Chagny deaths, hoping to find lines in their obituaries such as, 'preceded in death by his brother,' or 'survived by his brothers and sister.' They were a well-known family, and it might be that there was a notice placed somewhere. It was a pitiful and unreliable method, yet she doubted Erik's confirmation of his deportation so thoroughly that she was not hesitant to flip over to the section. However, each day brought nothing, much to her disappointment and relief.

Erik could not describe his feelings; he was selfish and tyrannical over Christine, yet he only wanted what she wanted, and still he thought it best to simply let her be. It was all happening at once, and many times he had to escape from the house to drain his emotion. He took Christine on walks, although they were few, and she could hardly stand the fact.

It was then that one night Erik presented her with a gift. It was wrapped plainly in a little long rectangular box, and he handed it to her without a word. She vaguely wondered if he had wrapped it himself. Erik paced agitatedly, rubbing his ear and shooting glances at her. The familiar sensation of anxiety crept into her stomach, and she quickly unwrapped the present with trembling fingers. There was a box with a lid, lined with more paper, and in it was something to make her look at Erik with a quivering lip.


	15. Chapter 15

With trembling fingers, Christine picked up the key to the Rue Scribe and continued to stare at Erik, who was feeling quite uncomfortable. Surely she appreciated his present! This should mean very much to her, should it not? After all, it was not a pretty trinket or new dress; this was something that could affect their relationship dramatically. And it did.

Christine gave a laugh and leapt to her feet, hugging the key to her breast and a wide, grateful smile pouring onto her lips while she earnestly thanked Erik many times over. He gave a gruff response and stood stiffly as she had her small celebration.

"When can I go out?" she asked breathlessly. "Today? Right now? Oh, please, Erik!"

Erik waved a hand. "Tomorrow night would be best, my love. You are too tired right now."

Christine argued. "No, I am perfectly fine! I can go out right now! Here, let me fetch my shawl, and I shall be back before supper."

He gently took her arm as she made to leave. "No, dear," he commanded softly. "Not tonight. Tomorrow; you can go out all afternoon. "I will be happy if you do that."

The look on her face suggested that she would rather eat rubbish than wait one more night, yet Christine nodded sadly. The rest of the day passed with her morose sadness. Erik was not perturbed; she would be back to herself the next morning, a bright, cheerful little sparrow, her feathers ruffled from the promise of excitement later in the day. He did the cooking that night, while Christine sat on the fainting couch and tapped her fingers impatiently on her knee, looking at the ticking clock as if it would go faster if she stared at it. When Erik lightly touched her shoulder, she jerked away, surprised rather than offended, and she did not miss the shadow that flitted across his eyes.

"I've called you for supper three times," he explained quietly. Christine nodded and rose to her feet before following him to the table. She did not fail to notice the fresh flowers on the table, nor the fact that Erik had made extra food; he never did this, and she frowned. He would simply have to throw it away. After helping her into her chair, he took his place and happily filled her plate. This was most unusual. Erik always had a plate ready for her; he would set it before her and usually amble off to do something else. It was something important when he sat with her through meals. Christine took her plate with a quiet 'Thank you,' and played with her fork before saying,

"Is there something you wish to talk about?"

Erik blinked. "No."

"Is anything wrong with my lessons?"

Again, "No."

He looked at her, almost morosely. "Your husband simply wishes to spend time with you; is that a sin, Christine?" When she did not answer, he persisted, "Is it?"

This time, it was Christine who replied, "No."

Erik gave a nod and poured more water into her full glass. The dinner was strained. Neither could find much to talk about. When at last Christine announced that she was finished, Erik whisked the plate away and cleaned everything before she could attempt to put a hand on a dish.

"I wish you would let me clean up after myself," she stated, though friendly and conversationally. "It makes me feel dreadfully childish to have you always picking up my messes."

"I enjoy it," he said shortly. "You will never have to lift a finger here. All your silly cleaning can stop whenever you'd like; Erik lets you do it because he wants you to be able to do whatever you wish."

"I should be doing something," Christine frowned. "I can't sit here like a ninny and be waited on hand and foot. It would drive me mad. From now on, I wish to clean up my meals and cook them, as well."

The masked man merely gave her a questioning look. "If that is what you wish."

The night was restless for the young woman. She tossed and turned in her sheets, feeling feverish, kicking off the sheets irritably and then pulling them back up to her chin soon after. The thought of her limited freedom consumed her thoughts, and she happily let it. The night seemed to drag on for eternities. She dozed a few times, only to wake hurriedly and realize it was much too early to even consider crawling out of bed. After rolling onto her side and pushing her hair out of her face, she contemplated her destination for tomorrow. So many sights called to her; perhaps the park, but she had been there before with Erik many times. Or maybe she would simply a stroll through the Parisian streets, listening to the chatter of different voices and the hustle of a normal life. It was something she was irresistibly attracted to. Deciding to follow wherever her feet decided to take her, she restlessly rolled across the bed, feeling the sheets tug protectively at her and then shoving them to the side once again.

Finally, when she could bear it no longer, she rose from her rumpled bed, yawning slightly and yet quickly swallowing it; Erik would not let her leave if he thought her tired. It was his insane, possessive logic working up, and she would be forced to forever find loopholes. Christine picked out her clothing hurriedly, settling on a cream dress that was accented with pink ribbons; she knew Erik liked it very much, and, at the moment, she was sure she would have done anything to make him happy, just as long as he let her go outside.

Her husband was not sympathetic, however, when her lessons went badly. He knew of her insuppressible excitement, yet he scolded her and would not let her eat dinner until she 'actually applied herself and sang that accursed B flat!' Christine knew that it was well after one o' clock when he began to prepare her meal. The young woman was so agitated and anxious that she forgot entirely about her request from the previous night, instead choosing to sit at her place and run her fingers over the cool surface of the key. When the steaming fish was finally placed before her, she had to sit for a moment and remind herself of etiquette, so tempted was she to simply shove it down her throat and fly out the door. It was a strange sound to hear, but Erik actually chuckled as she ate.

"Your slender fingers are trembling so badly," he remarked. Suddenly, he became irrepressibly gloomy. "Are you that excited to leave your Erik who loves you so dearly? Nothing adores you up there as much as I do, I can assure you."

Christine said nothing for a moment, and she set down her utensil slowly. "I simply want to see the sky again," she said sincerely.

"I have always wondered why people are so drawn to it," he replied evenly, gracefully setting himself in a chair. "It seems so strange that one would beg and plead to see it, and even right before – " Here he cut himself off, and Christine choked slightly. She wasn't positive on what he was about to say, but she was quite certain it was not pleasant, and she paled. Erik observed her sadly.

"You had best be on your way if you wish to return before dark."

Christine, glad for the reason to leave the awkward pause, leapt to her feet to fetch her things. Before she left, Erik took her wrist and turned her hand so her palm faced up. In it he placed several francs. She noticed, later, that it was enough to buy something nice, and more than enough to buy something should she feel hungry, yet it wasn't enough to buy a ticket to...anywhere, and in a hansom cab it would only get her a few miles out of Paris. Erik was silent as he led her up.

"I should expect you home before dark," was his gloomy, solemn farewell. Christine nodded and quickly left her brooding husband, eagerly stepping out into the streets, feeling the hot, joyful sunshine soak through her skin and make her truly warm for the first time in months. She headed immediately for a busy street, taking pleasure in the fact that a woman accidentally bumped into her and a child placed his sticky hands onto the fine fabric of her skirt. No one recognized her, no one stopped to speak with her, no one gave her funny looks. A young man smiled at her (perhaps _too_ kindly), but she happened to be smoothing her hair with her left hand, and he caught sight of the ring before grudgingly looking the other way. Christine wasn't entirely sure in which direction she was headed; she was following her feet, just like she had thought, and they led her to many interesting and busy places. Surprisingly enough, she felt entirely comfortable with all the people that jostled her. The feel of an occasional brush from another skirt against hers elated her at every instance. When a hassled-looking man with a thick British accent asked the way to the 'Ark deh Treeown,' as he so put it, Christine helped him as much as she could, though he still headed off in the opposite direction, pulling out a pocket watch and muttering under his breath.

When she was hungry, she guiltily bought something sweet from the confectioner's shop, knowing that she should have bought something more sustaining, and yet not being able to resist the tantalizing smells that called to her. Judging by past behavior, Christine wasn't entirely sure if Erik knew of her delight for sugary things. She traveled farther and farther through the city, each step telling her that it was time to head back if she was to make it to the Rue Scribe before dark, and yet unable to turn herself around. Soon, the crowds began to clear, men accompanying their wives to their little houses, lovers sighing as they parted, children crying and laughing simultaneously as they were ushered home, and Christine envied each little act.

The sun was twinkling over the tops of the buildings, its rays still struggling for life, and Christine finally admitted it was time to return; she was already late. Erik would be most upset. The more thought she gave it, the more panicked she became. He would not let her leave again! His trust would be shattered; he would be angry. Perhaps he would yell at her and lock her in her room. The young woman picked up her skirts and hurried along, although she knew that it would be well after dark by the time she returned. She paused and observed her surroundings before sighing slightly. There was a shortcut that she was sure of; she and Raoul (the mere thought of him gave her a dreadful pain in her heart) had taken it once when they were late for a dinner reservation, and Christine was...relatively sure that it was the same street. She started down it confidently, though it wavered as she continued. The rubbish piled up on the sides, she did not remember, nor the filthy walkway or dirty smell. Christine swallowed harshly and took another step forward until something grabbed her wrist. She turned, terrified, to find an old, wizened beggar woman staring at her with wide, brown eyes. The young woman's breath seemed to return, yet she did not relax completely as she gave the woman two francs.

This small act caused another woman to creep from the shadows. She was younger, yet still considerably aged, and she held out a claw-like hand to Christine, who nervously dropped two more francs into the palm. Two more beggars suddenly appeared, half-crawling toward Christine, who was beginning to panic. They were filthy, clothed in dirty rags; their eyes were hollow, empty, wide, _hungry_, and Christine gave a small cry as one took a tight hold of her skirt.

"Release me!" she demanded, though it was done feebly, and another muck-covered hand reached out to take a hold of the pink, silky ribbon that encircled her waist. When she attempted to flee, she heard and felt material rip, and she at last gave a true, despairing shriek.

Something brushed her side, and she looked to see her husband, standing in front of her, his cloak billowing majestically and his golden eyes alight, looking like a god from Hell. She was instantly freed, and her attempted 'shortcut' was empty rather quickly. Erik stood still for a moment, his thin chest rising in a smooth, paced motion, and Christine trembled before giving an embarrassed gasp. The ribbon from her dress had been torn right off, ripping a wide hole in the small of her back, and she felt it, paling to realize that her undergarments were being openly displayed. When Erik moved to see what was wrong, she backed into the wall, her cheeks turning to fire. Without a word, he unclasped his cloak and draped it around her small frame. Christine accepted the act graciously, as did she to his arm, clinging to it pathetically, shivering so much that Erik was obliged to ask if she had been injured.

"No," she whispered quietly.

When he did not reply, Christine felt her anticipation mount. They soon reached the Rue Scribe (Erik obviously knew Parisian shortcuts better than she), and he silently led her into the Opera House. She was, of course, annoyed that he had followed her, but at this time she felt it impossible to confront him about it.

"Are you very angry?" she finally asked.

He was silent for a very long time, but Christine knew that he had heard her; she was simply afraid to speak up again. After many minutes, he said hollowly, "Should I be?"

"I was not leaving," she assured him quietly. "I was trying to come back."

After Erik had her situated in the boat, he climbed in deftly and rowed, still silent, never looking at her, his eyes empty. Christine lowered her gaze to the cool, smooth surface of the lake. Her pale reflection gazed back, and, without thinking, Christine lowered her fingertips to the smooth water, feeling it graze her skin in its icy blackness. Erik's rowing speed was such that it created an arrow of ripples, forever pointing at her fingertip. She gave a hesitant glance at Erik, who, not even bothering to pay attention to where he was headed, was studying her intently.

"Why did you come back?" he whispered, almost pleadingly, childishly. His arms stopped their rhythmic motions, and he stared at her as if she was a goddess. Indeed, to him she was.

Christine's eyebrows shot up. Surely he knew that _she_ knew she couldn't escape; there was no way that he would not.

"Because you told me to," she replied stupidly, and Erik's hand crept out, gently brushing her dress at the knee before he pulled it back quickly. He was still gazing at her.

"Why did you never return to bury me?" was his next question.

"You are not dead. You never were."

He waved his hand very impatiently. "That isn't the important thing, my dear. Answer."

There was a small silence. "Erik," she finally sighed wearily, "we both know that I wasn't ready. You asked too much of me all those months ago."

He began to row again before he once again stopped suddenly. "Christine knows...knows that you are the only thing I've ever loved, the only thing in my miserable, lonely life. I have never loved anything...except you. Erik did not even love his own mother."

Christine replied shakily, slightly unnerved, "What about your music?"

He shook his head. "I never wrote music until I loved you. What Erik wrote wasn't music. It was...nothing. You are my music, Christine. And I love you more than you could possibly imagine."

She said nothing; she was feeling slightly confused. Could it be that she would never in her life experience such an intense, passionate feeling like Erik was describing? Would she amble through life, alone, disoriented, never thinking beyond the next day, never digging into herself to find those hidden springs of emotion of which she need only sip to experience all of those fanatical, incredible feelings?

She wanted Erik to tell her what to do. She was afraid of making a choice and then finding out it was the wrong one. However, Erik was silent as he pulled her into the house and accompanied her to her bedroom door. Christine, still worried, decided to instead lightly tread around her worry instead of plowing into it, and she said,

"I will do better tomorrow, Erik. I promise to be back before dark."

He knew what she was playing at, and he tilted his head slightly. "Yes," was his smooth, quiet reply. "I'm sure."

Christine sighed, exhausted from his vagueness and mind games. "Goodnight, Erik," she said sharply, unclasping the cloak and handing it to him, making sure to keep her back to the door. Erik took it with expressionless eyes.

"Goodnight, my little songbird."


	16. Chapter 16

**As I now have the final planning laid out, I realized how much longer this was going to be than I thought. So! We still have a ways. Enjoy, and thanks so much for the reviews. I'm sorry I don't respond to them personally, but if I had the time, I really would. Thank you!**

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The paper was going to rip if she continued to twist it between her fingers the way she was. Nervously, she smoothed it and tucked the slip in the ribbon of her waist. Erik finally emerged from his room, looking perfectly content to see his wife standing at the door, her eyes innocent and hopeful. Wordlessly, she stepped out of the way and allowed Erik to pull her through the twisting catacombs.

To her immeasurable relief, Erik had agreed when she asked to venture out once more. She didn't know why or what had caused him to decide that...but he did, and she was grateful. As they drew closer to the door, Erik's grip on her arm suddenly tightened, and she squeezed her eyes shut to make up for the swallowed whimper of pain.

"You are hiding something from me, little one," he growled. "Erik does not appreciate secretive women. Now, go ahead and tell me."

Christine swallowed harshly. "It...it's something that I – that _you_ – well..." She trailed off ashamedly and revealed the crumpled piece of paper. Timidly, the young woman held it out to Erik, who took it as though it was made of glass. When he began to unfold it, Christine's cheeks fired up.

"I'll be back before dark," she said hurriedly, fumbling for the handle. "It...it's just something to think about, Erik."

And with that, she practically ran out into the Parisian streets, attempting to calm herself. Erik surely wouldn't be upset – how could he? It was only a mere suggestion. After all, Christine knew she couldn't live underground for the rest of her life. She needed to live in a nice, quaint little house with wide windows and a garden. There was no harm in wishing, was there? Erik did it constantly, and she decided that it was her turn.

The paper was simply an advertisement for a house that she had discovered. It was a good distance from Paris, relatively remote, and Christine ripped it out of the newspaper carefully. She copied it on several slips of paper, just in case, and the copies were safely tucked away in what she hoped was a secret corner of her room.

Her outing was uneventful. She spent most of it admiring the pretty flowers in the park, half-listening to the conversations around her, half-wondering if Erik was following her. A little voice inside her head whispered _yes_. When she bought something from the sweet shop once again and returned to their queer little home to find a sugary pastry waiting for her with her supper, her suspicions were confirmed. She said nothing to Erik, who said nothing to her, either. His eyes were of passive indifference as he greeted her and escorted her down to the lake.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" was his polite question.

"Very much, thank you." Her answer was soft, quiet.

Christine ate with hurried anxiety. He did not fail to notice her tapping feet nor the way she agitatedly drummed her fingers once in a while. Although she never once looked at him, he guessed as to what she was thinking.

"Is something unsatisfactory?" he murmured.

At his remark, she suddenly choked on her water and had a small, violent coughing fit. Erik, baffled at her jumpy response, instantly took the glass away and fretted about her until she was quiet.

"No," she hiccoughed quietly. Erik raised his invisible eyebrows and gave Christine that scrutinizing look that she so detested.

"I...I was simply wondering," she began, her words becoming faster and more garbled as she continued, "if you – you had thought about...what I – I gave you."

His gaze was cool, and it did chill her to the bone.

"No," he clipped. She watched his large hands fill her water glass, finding that her head was starting to pound.

"Why not?" Christine whispered. "It's – it's what you've always wanted. And I need out of this cage, Erik."

There was no reply for many minutes. Erik busied himself by cleaning up her plate.

"It is a good thing that you still have hope," he finally remarked. Christine followed him to the kitchen, beginning to tremble. She could sense him stiffen when she began to speak again.

"And why not?" she demanded. "Why ever not? You do not wish for better things for you – for me? It is not a matter of money! You would not have to swallow your pride. You would be making me happy – yourself happy. Why are you so _selfish_? You hide down here, shutting us away from everyone – "

At this, Erik dropped the dishes and was in front of her. He ripped off his mask and seized her wrists, his grip strong and terrible. Instantly, she closed her eyes.

"_Look at me_!" he screamed. Slowly, he could see her clear-blue eyes come to lock with his, and her face turned deathly pale.

"Ah, madam, you wish to have this – this _thing _above the ground? Hmm? To mingle and socialize, to drink fine wines and invite the chaps over for Sunday dinner? To have a pretty, small thing like you on the elbow of a hideous monster and still be able to keep a house? Oh! This is what you want, is it? Go on – touch me! Tell me you want this!"

"Erik – stop it!" she begged frantically. He took her hands and placed them on his cheeks, running them over his twisted lips and up to his forehead. To his surprise, Christine did not start crying. Her eyes had turned hard, and her small pink lips were set. When Erik, his thin chest heaving, dropped her hands, she remained, staring at his face, and the man suddenly felt incredibly exposed.

"I hate you," she whispered.

His lips twisted into something of a feral growl. "That is the most sensible thing that has come out of your mouth all night."

He allowed her to hit him, beat her fists into his chest one time, two times, three times, four times...Her face suggested the bitterest frustration as he gazed down at her. Then, giving his bony chest one more good slap, she stormed into her room and slammed shut the door.

The next day found Christine in her room, refusing to come out. Erik only approached her door after suppertime. When he knocked, he received a curt, "Leave me be!"

"Christine, my dear, would you kindly accompany me on a walk?"

There was silence, and Erik twisted his hands around, staring at the wood of the door. Suddenly, it was opened, and Christine stood on the other side, her head bowed and a shawl around her shoulders. He barely suppressed a chuckle.

Summer was in full. The air was warm and full of wonderful, fresh smells, unlike the musty scent that lingered below the Opera House. Excitedly, Christine hurried along at Erik's side, eager to see and touch and feel all that the city had to give her before her captor forced her into her cage once again.

It was strange; she was positive that Erik could read her very thoughts, for he said, "I do not wish for our home to be a prison to you."

Christine, seated by a small fountain and running her fingers through the cool water, looked up at him. "It is a prison because you make it so," she said, though her tone was small and weak, as though she was terrified that he might scream at her again. "Erik," she continued, standing up and moving toward him, "I have done as you asked; I have been your living wife. You said you wanted to make me happy. You _said _you wished for a house aboveground. Why will you deny yourself your dreams?"

The man stared at the ground, his fists clenched tightly. "I...Erik..." He swallowed harshly and tried once more. "Erik is not ready."

There was a stunned silence. Christine had been so sure that Erik was strong, much stronger than she, and willing, eager, to do anything for her. It was strange to imagine him being frightened of something, unsure of himself, and completely unprepared. Christine looked at him for a very long time. He would not lift his head to look at her, nor would he unclench his fists. With small awkward movements, Christine drew even closer and reached to take his hand gently. Erik snapped his eyes over to their touching flesh, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"I – I can help you," she whispered, allowing him the pleasure of relaxing his hand and fully taking hers between his long, skeletal fingers.

"Yes," he replied softly. "Help me."

And the sun fully disappeared into the great, wide and endless space.


	17. Chapter 17

**Sorry to say, but there is still angst to come. And then some more angst, but this is an angsty story. Just hang in there! **

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Weeks had passed since their last argument. Attempts to "help" Erik, as Christine had so said, were becoming fruitless. Whenever he was in a temper, he avoided her entirely. This frustrated her to nearly giving up entirely. Erik had subconsciously thought that the best way to show Christine that he had controlled his temper was to never be near her when he had one. Neither had mentioned the house, although Erik knew that Christine wished to discuss it. What Erik desired from their conversation was further physical affection. He often reached for her, though she pulled away, attempting to hide a shudder at the sight of his white, spider-like hands. The way she had so gently took his hand burned his skull, and he often sat up late, staring at the hand, wondering what it would be like to take her small fingers and press them to his thin lips.

One day, after a morning of singing, the odd couple was sitting on opposite ends of the couch. Erik appeared to be very interested in his book, but he was more interested in the young woman sitting next to him. She had a small hand mirror and was holding it out in front of her, pushing her long, thick hair up in different styles, seeing their effect. She would then let her hair drop heavily to her shoulders and try again. Erik felt as though explosions of delicious scents were hitting his face each time she let her hair fall.

Giving up entirely on his book, he sighed and instead watched her out of his peripheral vision. She was gathering her hair in her hands, twisting it and pulling it up. One lock had escaped and trailed down her back. Without thinking, Erik reached over and gently joined it with the mass of her hair, his fingers grazing her neck. Christine jumped at his touch and immediately took her hands away from her hair. With a face growing steadily redder, she, without looking at him, stood and began to walk to her room.

"Would you love me if I was handsome, Christine?" Erik suddenly asked.

Christine stopped entirely but did not turn to face him.

"You would be different if you had been born with a different face," she murmured.

"I find your answer unsatisfactory, my pet," he said, rising to join her. "Would you love Erik if he had been given a face?"

"Don't ask me that," Christine said, her tone now angry. "It isn't fair."

"So you admit it?"

"I admit to nothing, monsieur."

"I would be handsome," he started carelessly, watching her closely, "with, no doubt, endless prospects and opportunities. With skills like mine, I would be richer than I am now. Perhaps I would own a townhouse and a house in the country, like the fashionable people in England. I could give you everything you wanted. You would be admired, respected, _worshipped _if you were my bride. You would create the latest fashion trends and women would hang on your every word. Would you love me then?"

"How could you torment me with ideas like this?" she hissed, whipping around to face him. His eyes flashed dangerously.

"Can you imagine how they torment _me_, Christine?" he snarled, rising and seizing her arms. "How changed my life would be if I was given...a nose, even! But my life is wasted, wasted down here in this hell! And Erik will keep you here. Yes, it is your fate to suffer with me. I knew this from the moment I saw you! You poor, innocent, naïve creature....God has no hand in this."

He staggered away from her, as if his monologue had drained him. "Would you love me then, Christine?" he finally whispered, child-like and hopeful.

"Would you love _me_ then?" she replied after many painful minutes of silence. And, ignoring his outstretched hand, disappeared into her room.

----

"I am going out this afternoon," Christine announced.

Erik raised one eyebrow. "You have plans for this afternoon," he said curtly. "Plans which cannot be changed."

The young woman folded her arms tightly. "I am quite capable of making my own plans," she said, though her voice quivered. She could see he was already in a testy mood. "I don't wish to sit here all night."

"Ah, you are bored," he snapped, and he walked over. "Allow Erik the small pleasure of amusing you." And, before she could blink, her shawl was off her shoulders and folded up in his arms. "I have already informed you that Erik is a great magician; he knows many tricks. Here!"

Suddenly, he was on the other side of the room. He had disappeared before her eyes, and she blinked, but then he was in front of her again, his eyes wide and blazing under his mask. His skeletal hand reached for her face, and she immediately flinched, but he withdrew, something shimmering between his long fingers. It had been on her left hand two seconds ago.

"Oh! As long as you wear this, you are Erik's friend. Is that not what we agreed upon? Now, you are his wife. Here, here, Christine." And he seized her left hand, which had no ring upon it, and shoved the gold band onto her finger. She shuddered when their fingers brushed.

"I thought I had 'plans,'" she reminded him faintly, repulsed by his closeness and all of his silly, childish tricks.

"Plans, plans, plans," he chanted, throwing his voice all around, the words swirling around her, echoing in her head. "Does Erik's ventriloquism overwhelm you? I must admit that it is a dizzying thrill. Now, my darling, select two cards. Hurry, hurry." He snapped his fingers impatiently, shoving a deck of cards under her nose. Christine closed her eyes and attempted to push them away, but Erik merely jeered,

"No, no, you cannot see with those pretty eyes closed! Pick the two and see." His hands flew, the cards dancing across his fingers, and, as soon as Christine had glimpsed at the cards, he snatched them from her hands and made them skip across his thin fingers. The cards exploded from his fingers, a shower of paper, and landed messily on the floor. Erik reached over and withdrew two cards from seemingly nowhere.

"These are yours, yes?" he demanded. "Look! Look and see." The man laughed horribly.

Christine let out a frightened sigh, rubbing her forehead, and she dropped to the floor, sitting amongst the cards, her head pounding.

"Erik," she whispered. "Erik, stop it."

"Do I frighten you?" He knelt down, gathering up a handful of cards, but crushing them instead of straightening them.

"Yes." Christine tried to control her tears. "I want to help you, Erik....But you're not letting me. You're hurting me instead."

"Darling, Erik is only trying to love you," he whispered. "How...how can he make you love him? What can he do? Christine – " He seized her hands and gripped them tightly in his own, his fingers deathly cold. The young woman repressed a shiver.

"Erik, you – you _stole _me again...again...after what you said, what I did...." She was beginning to feel the tears surface. All the unspoken words, the unshed tears, the hidden feelings were bursting out, like a cracked dam, and Erik released her hands as she buried her face into them.

"Do you remember, Erik?" she murmured. "We knelt right here...we cried right here....And I kissed you...and you let me go...."

"Oh, Christine," the man whispered fearfully. "Erik loves you so, so much. It hurts his heart when you are gone....He was dying, Christine, dying when you were not with him. Your young man can find someone else, someone young and pretty, but Erik has no one, no one to share his music, but you, Christine...._You_." During his tearful confession, he had crawled closer to her and clutched her skirts frantically. His large teardrops fell onto the fabric, and he coughed roughly, his mask choking him, but he would not remove it, nor did Christine bid him to.

"Erik wouldn't have taken you home so forcefully if he had not known you were to be married, but he couldn't let that happen, couldn't see you marry that boy and leave your poor Erik to languish in his living grave. You...you, my dear Christine, you promised to return. I waited for weeks. Erik cried, Christine, he wept for you, for himself, for the love that he has never had. I am the most wretched man who has ever lived! Yes, I know this, darling....Yet I would gladly spend an eternity in hell to spend these moments in heaven with you."

During this, Christine had not moved once. Her eyes were closed, and she allowed him to sob into her lap, his long fingers desperately clutching at her, reassuring himself that she was real. The soft fabrics brushed only his neck, the largest part of his pale, dry skin that was exposed, and he sighed, feeling her legs shift under the skirts.

He stiffened slightly; her fingers had come to an awkward rest on his head, and she ran her fingers through his thin, soft hair. Her small hands were trembling. And she was crying, her tears no longer that of selfish impulse, but of compassion for the man who lay before her, his very soul hers for the taking. They reached for each other, alone and confused, seeking for one moment of soft refuge, and Christine buried her face in his bony shoulder, shaking. Erik held her tightly, protectively, and yet at the same time it was he who needed the protection, and he shivered.

In that quiet, tender moment, they were both happy.


	18. Chapter 18

Erik sighed and frowned, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The constant rubbing of the mask against his face was becoming an irritating, dull ache. This made it hard to concentrate on the early program for the new opera season that he had "borrowed" from management. To be honest, he was concentrating on Christine, who was sitting in another chair and devouring the newspaper. He liked to watch her expressions change as she read; it was endearing. She would smile one moment and then furrow her brow and bite her lip the next. He couldn't resist giving an unseen smile. Their emotional breakdown had only been a few days ago, yet the difference was so tangible that Erik wanted to bottle it up and lock it away.

Although she still wouldn't touch him (much to his dismay), she was willing to engage in conversation. She smiled at his attempted jests to make her laugh, turned instantly serious when she saw that he was in a tiresome mood, and was happy to sing whenever he wished. Erik's own epiphany of his selfish, horrible nature was kept within himself. He realized just how devastated Christine had been over the fact that he didn't keep his promises, nor did she keep hers. Yet, for all his affection and tenderness toward her, he couldn't bear to see her leave. It was his own selfish love that kept her down here.

Erik set the program aside; it was all rubbish, anyway. There was an apparent problem as he studied his wife. She was still reading the paper. As she continued, her eyes widened visibly, and she gave a glance to Erik. Finding that he was watching her, she quickly looked back down, her face pale.

"Yes?" he prodded.

She merely ignored him and continued to read, though he could tell that she was not absorbing anything. His nerves were soon set on edge; what could she have found? If it was anything to do with the de Chagnys, he would have to take away her newspapers, too.

"Christine, darling?" he said again. He rose from his chair, trying not to hiss as his mask irritated him further. Christine saw him coming and hurriedly flipped to another section, looking at him with wide eyes. His stomach seemed to contract to nothing at all, and he took the paper away, turning back to the spot that had clearly upset her so.

He found...nothing. As he scanned the pages further, he noticed that the advertisement for the house that Christine had so desperately wanted was still in the paper.

"It upset you so much when I first mentioned it," she said hurriedly, as though afraid he would lash out at her. "I'm sorry. I wasn't looking for it."

Although he felt stupid, Erik gave a small smile underneath his mask. "I know. Let me play for you," he said, and Christine nodded, though her eyes betrayed her confusion.

His concert lasted for many hours, and she was quite content by the end. However, her stomach wasn't, and she sighed before rising to fix herself dinner. For the first time, she shyly asked if Erik wished for her to fix him anything. He still had a hard time remembering her 'soup' and not having his gag reflex stimulate, so he politely refused. As Christine nodded and went into the kitchen, she stopped for a moment_. Erik has had to take care of himself all his life. There was no harm in making sure he eats _something_ sometime, was there?_

All the baking took a very long time, and Christine smiled at the fact that nothing burned and that nothing was undercooked. After she had eaten her small share, she arranged the meal prettily on a platter, balancing it precariously in one hand as she opened the door and entered the main room. The tray wobbled in her hand dangerously as she stopped short: Erik was asleep.

It had never happened before. She had never seen him like this. His head resting on the top of the organ, his long limbs splayed, his mouth slightly open, and his eyes shut. The expression on his face was almost peaceful. Christine was still for a moment. It wasn't her desire to wake him from what was, no doubt, the only sleep he had obtained for days, but she had worked very hard on the dinner, and she imagined how surprised and pleased he would be to think that his 'little wife' had cooked and carried a meal to him. Besides, she had already eaten, and all the food would simply go to waste. After another few seconds of hesitation, she walked forward, still carrying the heavy tray in one hand, and she used the other to gently tap Erik's shoulder.

The man had been having an almost pleasant dream. It was rare that he was ever deep enough in sleep to dream. Sleep was foolish. In sleep someone could wring one's neck, slit one's throat, shoot one between the eyes...He was probably the best man on the subject; too many times had his victims been fast asleep when they met their Maker. So, when Erik gained enough consciousness to recognize a pressure on his shoulder, he snapped. Every move was calculated, cool, shaped and sculpted by a lifetime of mistakes and realizations on the best way to do this. Leaping to his feet, he swung his large hand and it came in contact with the assailant, throwing him off-balance. There was a great crashing noise, yet Erik paid it no heed, his mind focused on the task at hand. A feral growl escaped his throat, and he dropped to his knees, curling his fingers around a warm throat, feeling all the hot blood pound and the straining for breath.

The body underneath was squirming, hands scrabbling at his pale, skeletal ones, the legs jostling him, but all of these were familiar, and he no longer cared: no one had ever managed to throw him off long enough to escape.

Something...something was different this time, however. The throat was strangely and unnaturally smooth, as if the man had never before had a reason to shave. The body that was fighting under him was too soft, and the adrenaline was fading much too quickly. It was as if it was angry with him for being woken up for no good reason at all, as if this killing was not worth it. As the bright, blinding haze fell away from his eyes, they adjusted and finally came to realize who was under his hands.

Christine's tear-streaked, red face was framed by her long and glorious hair, and she was still choking on her sobs. Her small hands were prying at his long fingers. Erik blinked once, and then, as if his hands had been burned by the sun itself, drew them to his chest, falling backward and scooting away from the young woman who was gasping, wheezing, and grasping her neck in a visible attempt to draw breath. With an anguished, heartbroken moan, Erik crawled toward her, his head hanging and his chest heaving. Christine started and pulled away sharply when his fingers touched the hem of her dress. Another groan came from his throat, and he clutched his stomach is if he was going to be sick. She remained on the floor, taking slow, shaky breaths and trying to keep down a hideous coughing spell that was going to soon erupt.

"_Christine_," he moaned. "_Christine_..."

When her silence continued and she refused to look at him, he half-crawled to his room, stumbling like a drunk, and the door shut loudly. There was a sickening thud, a body dropping heavily to stone, and then complete silence. Christine, some of her strength regained, managed to pull herself to the kitchen, where she filled a glass with water and drank it. Most of it spilled over her cheeks and ran down her neck, for she could hardly hold the glass her hands were shaking so badly, but she managed to get a gulp into her mouth. However, her throat seemed to reject the water, and she coughed it out.

Her throat felt like sandpaper, and it hurt to swallow. When she breathed, it only seemed to dry it out even more. The sting in her cheek still remained, a sign of his hard backhand that sent her tumbling to the floor. She crawled into her bed after stripping off the heavy outer layers, not bothering to slip on a nightgown, and she shivered, her eyes wide open for hours.

Erik had almost killed her.

She was tempted to burst into despairing sobs, but that would only agitate her throat even further, so she held them back. It was stupid of her to think that she understood that...man, stupid to think that he had not had a past that made him violent, susceptible to insuppressible rage, stupid to imagine that because he married her, he would become kind and gentle. And he had been so unbelievably soft and kind the past few days. After another shiver, Christine pulled the sheets to her chin and dreamt in her sleepless slumber.

Three days passed. Erik did not emerge. Christine had cringed and cowered throughout her first day, afraid Erik would finally come out of his room. The morning of the second day was the same, yet by afternoon she was horribly bored, and the third day nearly drove her to her wit's end. She could not read anymore. The words were not registering with her brain. The house itself was dark, cold, foreboding without his presence, and Christine could not approach the organ. It was still hard to eat anything at all. There was a great pressure in her throat, which itself was still as sore as ever. She admitted that she needed Erik's medical skill or the injury might permanently damage her voice; and Erik would never, ever forgive himself if that happened.

Finally, in mid-morning of the fourth day, she marched up to Erik's door and pounded on it, demanding him to emerge from his room. She received no answer, no sound. Again, her fist collided loudly with the wood of the door, and she repeated loudly, "Erik? Please do not hole yourself up any longer; it is quite maddening to sit here with no company. Erik?" The effort to say something at all, much less shout, left her coughing for a few moments.

Still, no sound. Now, however, Christine was starting to worry; what if he was sick or injured? What if the emotional stress had hurt him? She began to slap the door with her palm in earnest. "Erik? Erik! Come out! Please!" The pleas hurt her throat, yet that did not stop her from straining it stupidly.

"Erik!" she half-shrieked, leaning against the door. "If you love me at all, Erik, you will come out this instant!"

Another few moments passed, and Christine was on the verge of bursting into sobs when the door was jerked open. Erik stood, his eyes and head downcast, his whole manner suggesting a small child who knew he had been caught doing something awful. Christine sighed with relief before trying to catch his eye and give him what she hoped was an encouraging smile. As Erik finally lifted his eyes, he saw the numerous, ugly bruising that circled her slender neck, and the large, yellow-tinted bruise that blemished her perfect cheek. An animalistic cry came from his throat, and he fell to his thin knees, seizing her skirt and burying his face into it.

"Erik," she whispered embarrassedly, trying to tug the material away from him. He was crying apologies into the fabric. "It doesn't matter; it was an accident."

To her surprise, this seemed to anger him immensely, for he leapt to his feet, his eyes burning. "An _accident_?" he hissed. "An accident that Erik almost wrung your pretty neck...that he could not stop himself. An accident that you have that hideous necklace of bruises." He lifted a finger and brushed one gently. Christine shivered from his touch and words. "An accident," he repeated dully.

As she was about to say something, her throat became irritated, and she started to cough, her eyes beginning to water. Erik, to her surprise, did not begin to weep or lose his control. He immediately took her to the kitchen, where he set sat her down and busied himself for a few moments. Turning around, he offered a glass of clear liquid to Christine, who took it warily. The drink suffocated her and burned her mouth, and she spat it out, very unladylike, all over the table.

"One doesn't drink this," Erik chided, taking the nearly-empty glass from her. "And stop coughing. Just be still for a moment."

Christine tried to be obedient, yet occasionally she would give a small, muffled cough, much to the displeasure of Erik, who handed her another full glass. It warmed her cold hands as she clutched it.

"Hold it in the back of your throat. Do you understand?"

"Yes – "

"Hush!" he snapped. "You are forbidden to speak until your throat clears."

She resisted giving a glare and instead tipped the warm liquid inside her mouth. It tasted bitter, and she was tempted to spit it back out, yet Erik was watching her closely, so she let it swirl around her mouth and down her throat.

"It will numb your throat for a while, which will give you time to sleep. I doubt you've gotten much over the past few days."

He escorted her to her room, and, instead of a 'good night,' she gave a clumsy curtsy and a small smile. It was impossible to tell with the mask, but it appeared as if he was at least attempting to smile. Christine entered her room and shut the door gently. There were a few moments of silence. And, soon, she heard her husband begin to sob.

Christine wanted to cry with him, but was forced to be content sitting on the other side and breathing, "Oh, Erik..."


	19. Chapter 19

It took at least a week for the bruises to fade completely. Christine would catch Erik staring at them, as if they were extremely fascinating, and it would unnerve her. She soon took to wearing scarves and dresses with high collars until they disappeared.

For the first few days, Erik gave her a variety of strange beverages. A few hours after the administration, he would (much to her embarrassment) peer into her mouth, muttering incoherently to himself. Then he would place his fingers on her throat, which she knew he secretly adored doing, and it angered her even more. However, if she brought it up, he would become upset and insist it was only for her health. He would then grow even more annoyed because she had spoken. Even if she attempted to whisper, he would snarl at her.

"Swallow," he commanded, his bony fingers prodding gently at her soft, smooth throat. As she did so, he placed his fingers in various places. "Swallow." It still hurt ever so slightly, and she did not appreciate his ice-cold fingers stealing her warmth. The house was chilly enough.

"Once more, Christine."

"Haven't you felt enough?" she burst out savagely. His eyes flashed up to hers.

"Silence, you silly girl! I am trying to protect your voice!"

"It wouldn't _need _protecting if you hadn't – "

She cut herself off as his grip came to her arms, and the pressure applied by his thin fingers caused her to cry out.

"Erik!" she half-pleaded, half-gasped.

He pried his fingers off of her arms and closed his eyes tightly.

"Christine, I...Erik is trying. I want to be a good husband...for you." He had entwined a hand into her hair before she could protest, and he watched the golden locks slide through his ugly fingers. Christine stood stiffly, unsure if she should reply or not.

"It is...well enough to speak again, although you shan't sing for another two weeks, at the very least."

He sighed heavily, reluctantly taking his hand from her hair, his palm barely whispering across her cheek. Coldness radiated from his very fingers, and she watched him slip on a pair of gloves to hide his white, bony hands.

How long had it been since someone with warm, gentle hands caressed her? Since she had actually _seen _someone's face as they talked with her? Christine accepted the half-full glass from Erik and swallowed the vile mixture before retreating to her room. He (usually) left her alone when she went to hide in her room for a few hours. She sat on the edge of the bed, twisting her fingers about, trying to remember how it felt to have a soft, tender hand brush against her...but she couldn't. All she could envision and feel were Erik's cold, hard fingers, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to muffle a sob that threatened to arise. He...oh, she could see he was trying. Yesterday she had (quite accidentally) knocked over a large stack of music, and he sprang from the organ bench, a foul beast ready to attack. However, he merely sighed and began to pick up the scattered music. Christine helped him as best she could, though her hands were trembling, and she was constantly expecting him to snap at her.

It was the fact that she was growing accustomed to his violence, his foul temper, his blatant and raw anger that suddenly frightened her. Had she forgotten what it felt like to be loved by someone calm and safe? Her poor Raoul! Without thinking, she hastily pulled off the plain gold band that rested on her finger and set it aside, rubbing the now-bare digit with something of a frantic urge to rid her skin of the feeling of that tainted ring. She sighed and rubbed her arms tiredly. Raoul was probably doing well in America...He was wonderful with people, and it would not surprise her to know that he was living in a grand mansion in the heart of New York City (for, as Erik had told her long ago, that was where all wealthy people in America lived). Little wenches probably hung onto his every word, and her cheeks grew a vivacious red with jealousy. What if Raoul had forgotten her? A powerful hunger erupted in her heart, and she quickly grabbed a piece of paper and her fountain pen before quickly scribbling words onto the white parchment.

Now, trembling and cautious, she emerged from her room, her determination disappearing steadily as she approached Erik, who was tinkering with...something. It looked to be a jumble of wires, yet he handled it delicately, peering at each one carefully before twisting it this way and that.

"Erik?"

"Mm?" he answered distractedly.

"May I ask you a favor?"

"Of course, darling." His answers suggested high indifference, and, as he was so focused on his task, Christine thought that, perhaps, he wouldn't know to what he was agreeing.

"May I write a letter to Raoul?" She spat out the words quickly.

"What?" he hissed, tearing his eyes away from the contraption to look at her.

Christine trembled. "Oh, Erik, it's nothing! I just wish him to know that I am well. He's probably very worried...He's my friend, Erik...Erik, please? You can read it," she said wildly. "It says nothing except I am well. And...and I...I will kiss you – on the cheek," she finished, her face flushed.

"All your kisses are bribery, madam," he said frowningly.

"Here," she said quickly, holding out the paper to him. "Read it. Please, Erik. It won't hurt."

He took the letter as if it was something revolting and opened it slowly.

"'_My dear Raoul_,'" he began. Christine flushed; she did not wish for him to read it out loud.

"That must be changed, _my dear_," Erik observed. "You are a married woman. Never forget. '_How long it has been since we have last seen each other_!' And why should that matter? '_I wish for you to know, Raoul, that I am well_. _The music I have down here is ethereal_.'" Here, he let out a horrible, short laugh. "Yes, it should be, shouldn't it? After all, Christine, I am your Angel of Music. '_I feel like my red scarf on that happy day at the seaside when we were children_.'" Here, he paused, and Christine waited with held breath.

"What about your red scarf, Christine?" he asked quietly. "Why is that relevant?"

She grew very angry with herself for thinking that Erik would not see her hidden plea. "I...we played with it," she invented hurriedly. "It was just a silly game we played."

Erik stared at her for a very long time, and Christine tried not to betray her slight panic. To her great relief, he lowered his eyes to the letter once again. "'_I hope you are well in your new home_. _You deserve endless happiness_. _Love_, _Christine_.'

"Well," he said, "this must be rewritten, darling – at once, if I am to send it by tonight."

Her heart skipped a few beats. "What's wrong with it?"

He turned the paper over and scrawled a few sentences on the back before handing it to her with, "It should sound something like this."

_Monsieur de Chagny_,

_I hope you are well_. _I, myself, am doing excellently_. _I feel like my red scarf from the day at the seaside_.

_Cordially,_

_Madam Christine __Daae_.

He studied her for a split-second when she finished reading it. "I still do not understand why you insist upon putting your red scarf in the letter." And he gazed at her in such a fashion that Christine paled. She made no comment but instead took a fresh piece of paper and copied Erik's letter verbatim before folding it and handing it back to him. He took it silently and tucked it up in his coat.

"I will send this," he murmured, reassuring her doubts.

"Thank you, Erik." She turned to go back to her bedroom, her wild heartbeat finally beginning to slow.

"Wait, Christine," Erik called, his voice frosty.

It was then that she remembered her promise of another kiss. Swallowing harshly, she turned and saw him standing patiently. Her footsteps felt heavy as she approached him. As he began to take off his mask (Christine had pointedly looked away), he paused for a moment.

"I am going to kiss you," he declared.

She couldn't decide if that was worse or better, and so she remained silent, staring at the wall in front of her. Even though she refused to look at him, from her peripheral vision she could see him approach. He placed a hand cautiously on her hair. Christine shivered. His lips were cold on her cheek, and, after a mere second, she ripped herself away and hurried to her room. The sheets were soon warm, but that was not enough, and her hand wandered up to rub the spot where Erik's lips had been only moments ago. He would be happy now...With a strange and sad smile, Christine rolled over and fell into a dreamland filled with falling sensations. Never once was Erik there to catch her.


	20. Chapter 20

**Extra love to all those who reviewed! Please enjoy (and review) this chapter!**

* * *

Rainbows danced before her eyes, creating a carefree, floating sensation, and she waltzed toward the bookshelf, lightly touching the book on which the streaks of color were resting. Suddenly, it disappeared, and Christine turned back sharply at Erik, who was covering the curious little glass piece with his hand. She gave an irritated sigh and joined his side, peering at the rainbows that were now skipping across his fingers.

It was a present; one Christine was becoming increasingly fascinated by. She brushed the light on his palm, watching the reflections jump onto her finger, and it created a smile.

"This isn't magic, Christine," Erik explained seriously, allowing her to pick it up and handle the little glass object. "This is science."

Christine peered through both ends and then cupped the thing in her hands. As shadows overtook it, the rainbows disappeared.

"I don't understand," she stated plainly. "Does it give off light, like a candle, except this gives off many different colors?"

"No, dear. Isaac Newton proved this fact. It works only _with_ light." He gently took it back, holding it next to a brightly-burning candle. "The light is refracted all around, and the angles bend the light around. The glass makes the wavelengths different, but it is still beautiful, don't you think?"

As he twirled the glass between his fingers, Christine bit her lip, yet said nothing. The thought of the glass actually _bending _light was hard for her to grasp, but she did not want to be forever puzzled by such a pretty thing.

"Thank you, Erik," she said earnestly. He nodded once and held out the gift, which she took graciously. Although it was simply a piece of oddly-shaped glass during the night, she still liked to place a finger on it and imagine all the colors that exploded from it. Well, whatever Erik said, it certainly _was _magic to her...

The only thing that was magic, Erik told her, was music. Music had an infinite number of possibilities, and one could never figure it out. It was always there, and yet sometimes it never was. He admitted that even he had never understood it, which was why he loved it so. I have spent my entire life working on this problem, he told her, and am nowhere closer to figuring it out than I was when I started. And that made it all the more fascinating.

"Everything else," Erik explained, "has a solution. Everything has an answer. Music does not. There is no problem, and there is no answer. Your prism, my darling, has an answer. This silly trick – " He reached forward and pulled her ring, once again, from thin air. "This silly trick has an answer. But music, Christine, _music_...There is nothing, but there is everything." He paused for a moment, and his head tilted slightly. "Do you understand?"

The way he spoke about his great passion, the way his eyes seemed to glow with happiness, the way he suddenly became so animated...It created a bitter jealousy in her heart. He had never spoken with such reverence and respect about _her_. The way he expressed his...fondness for her was to grovel and weep, or scare and threaten. Music was Christine's life, but music was Erik's world, his entire universe, his reason for living. And yet, he had told her that _she _was his reason...She was his music. But he ignored her so completely while working on pieces. Composing isolated him from humanity, and for hours she would sit idly and watch him mutter, bent over the paper, occasionally plunking out a chord or two before stopping, rubbing his ear, and furiously scrawling out notes.

Although she counted herself as pathetic, she wished to see what he would do for her. So, when she saw that he was in a highly energetic state of mind, which was the signal that he had countless compositions racing around his brain, she called out sweetly,

"Erik? Would you read to me?"

He stopped short in the middle of the room, obviously torn. His gaze longingly drifted to the organ.

"Please?" she continued. "I would dearly love it."

Slowly, as if every step took a mental command, he sat on the couch and accepted the book Christine handed to him. It was thick. Christine noticed that it took him a very long time to relax. He read monotonously for a great deal of the book, but when she inched just a bit closer and their shoulders touched, she could sense him positively melt under the touch. The notes were draining. He could now enjoy reading to her.

A few days later, as she emerged from her room in the early morning, she approached Erik, who was digging through the masses of paper, obviously looking for a particular piece of music.

"Erik?"

He straightened, a large pile of music in his hands, and turned to look at her.

"May we play chess?"

"I – what?"

"Chess," she repeated. "We haven't played it in such a long time."

Once more, he eyed the music with such a craving yet hesitantly abandoned it and took his spot. The two played all morning. Christine enjoyed watching him play; even though he could have beaten her with his eyes closed, he concentrated on each move, his eyes focused, darting back and forth across the board. By dinnertime, however, she could tell he was becoming restless. He stopped trying and simply began to win each time, taking her players off the board without mercy and angrily muttering, "Checkmate." Then Christine would laugh and begin to set up the board again. If Erik could spend literally days on his music, he could bear to spend a morning with her instead.

When he won _again_ (Christine stopped trying to keep track of the number of times he had beaten her), and she put her pieces back onto the board, he angrily stood.

"Christine, for – ! Erik has not touched his organ all morning. Now, why don't you run along and make yourself dinner?"

And, without waiting for an answer, he smoothly turned on his heel and stalked to his organ, his back tense, and she could tell that he was trying not to clench his fists. Although this somewhat...disappointed Christine that Erik couldn't spend an entire morning with her, she now knew where his loyalties were. If given the choice between music and her being his bride, he would choose music without consideration.

After months of thinking, _believing_, that she was the only thing that mattered in his life, that she was the only thing that kept him breathing and alive, that she was his sole purpose, this realization hit her harshly, and she gulped down tears as she made herself a poor dinner of bread and old fruit. When she set the plate down onto the table, Erik hurried into the room, looking as though he had been working for hours. Ink had already stained his fingertips, and the tie at his neck was mussed and disoriented.

"Christine," he said breathlessly. "You must come at once; there is a song that – "

He cut himself off when he noticed Christine's foul glare.

"Is it possible for you to go an entire day without thinking about your music?" she asked, her tone quiet, though the irritability behind it was unmistakable.

"Of course," he answered frowningly. "When Erik was a youth, he went months without even touching an instrument."

"That isn't what I meant, Erik," she insisted.

His eyes narrowed in such a way that she could imagine his lips drawing into such a tight line that there really were no lips at all. "I don't wish to discuss this," he said coldly.

"Very well. We can continue being angry with each other." And she went back to her dinner, angrily ripping the bread in half.

Erik's temper had, by this time, risen to such an extreme that he almost ran into the wall on his way out of the kitchen. His vision was becoming hazy. That blasted girl was so upset with _everything _he did. Nothing he did _ever_ pleased her. He wrenched his bedroom door open and soon disappeared into one of the walls, ignoring Christine's shout of, "Erik?"

The silence now wrapped around the house. Christine angrily sighed and pushed her hair over her shoulders, attempting to calm down. What the two needed, she tried to convince herself, was more time. Time to talk and to express their feelings was something Erik would never agree on, yet she knew that it was what would suit their..."relationship" best. His ungovernable temper was becoming an annoying thing that she did not want to cope with. After washing her dishes, she went into the main room and swept a glance before pausing. Erik's door was ajar.

He always kept his room securely locked, yet in his haste he obviously didn't bother to shut it completely. With slow, shuffling, and furtive steps, she moved forward, picking up a candle to light the ones in his tomb-like room. She refused to look at his coffin, but there was not much else to look at. The heavy red and black drapes all around the room made her feel tightly enclosed, and she took several steadying breaths. Although he had never specifically told her not to enter his bedroom, she knew that he would disapprove, and so she kept a sharp watch. In one obscure corner, she discovered his opera, and reverently picked it up. The horrible thing was heavier in her hands than it should have, and she dropped it hastily before crossing herself.

A leaf of paper slid out of the rest.

Christine bit back a terrified gasp. How was she to know where it went? It would take much too long to figure it out, yet if she merely shoved it back in, he would know that she had been snooping. As she kneeled to pick it up, she halted. The handwriting was not Erik's. The handwriting was, however, familiar. A hoarse cry escaped her throat, and she quickly sat down, setting the candle aside and devouring each and every word that Raoul had written.

_Sir_,

_As much as I do not wish to_, _I cannot help but feel compelled to reply to your letter in the utmost haste_. _Neither you nor Mme__.__ Daae shall ever know how my heart seemed to expand when I read her letter_. _However, it did not expand with joy_.

_From the moment you placed me on that forsaken boat_,_ my only thoughts were of Christine_, _and it has been so ever since_. _My situation in America was dismal_; _I quickly wrote to my family for assistance, yet the disgrace I had brought to them by associating myself with the whole messy business has made them rather__...__reluctant_. _They gave me barely enough to feed and shelter myself each year, and I found myself growing desperate_. _Christine must know that I still love her with every ounce my body possesses_, _and_ _if she had known of more of these unhappy circumstances_ _she will not blame me_. _A young woman learned that I was a French Vicomte_, _and it seemed to settle itself in her empty head that I possessed vast amounts of wealth_._ I did not enlighten her, as she and her family are_ very _well off_.

_My growing desperation and loneliness finally forced me to succumb to her not-so-subtle hints of marriage_. _It is the most unhappy one that has every graced this earth_._ Night and day we avoid each other__;__ the woman is the most spiteful, silly, and vain creature I have ever met_.

_By my luck, it did not seem to surprise me when I found out that we are now expecting a child_. _I cannot bear the mere thought, nor can she_. _Relate the fact to Christine that I hold no love for either mother or child and can only think of her day and night_.

_The poor fact is that it is simply impossible for me to return to France and claim her_. _However, that will not stop me from trying_. _From the moment I opened her letter_, _I have been thinking of nothing else_. _For now, shower her with your love, for there is no one else who deserves it more (I believe I know better than most anyone else how much you adore Christine Daae)_. _Tell her that I will not stop my continued efforts__;__ I know that she will not wish me to abandon my small family, and I am trying to abide by her wishes. Let Christine know of my undying affection and love for her_.

_I am, forever, her devoted and adoring servant,_

_R. de Chagny_

If Erik had been in the house, he would have heard the screams of grief that echoed around the stone walls. Christine clenched the paper tightly in her hand, rocking back and forth a little, trying to control her tears. She frantically looked at the letter again. Erik had forged it; she was certain. This was one of his insane attempts to isolate her. However...there was no mistaking _his _fine handwriting. He even had that silly, loopy R. that Christine found so endearing. She moaned into her hands and began to sob.

Raoul...her Raoul...her childhood love...was married and soon to be a father. It was all crashing down, smothering her, choking her, and she wanted to burn the letter and demand Erik's confession. She was to be married to Raoul...they had both wanted children...they had envisioned a life of laughter and their pure, innocent love. And now that another...horrible woman was allowed to feel his warm hands and had the pleasure of merely looking at him, but did not, only redoubled her grief. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think, and, now back in the sitting room, she picked up a beautiful glass flower that Erik had brought back from India and smashed it against the floor.


	21. Chapter 21

Erik sighed heavily while hurrying along the pitch-black passages. He did not want to have to face Christine after their ridiculous argument. The fact that she could become upset over nothing at all never ceased to infuriate him, and the idea that she would still be angry with him when he returned was something he did not want to ponder. He nearly activated one of his own traps on accident as a result of his distraction, and he bit back a hefty curse as he continued. A small boat waited for him on the shores of a black, bottomless lake, and he swiftly climbed in. As it drifted lazily toward his house, he wondered if the siren would have anyone joining her soon. It had been so long, and she must be getting lonely...Erik's bony fingertips came to rest on the icy, black water, staring into its depths.

As he approached the shores that led to his home, he looked up swiftly. Loud noises were wafting across the lake – something that had never happened. There was crashing...and screaming. Without a second thought, he dove straight into the lake and swam the rest of the way, knowing it was stupid to leave his boat, yet perfectly aware that swimming was faster. His long, lean legs kicked powerfully, and he crawled up onto the shore before running to his front door. The crashing had not ceased, and the screams were separated by sobs. Erik, his mind in a panicked frenzy, opened the front door with the push of a button. _Someone was in the house_..._Someone was hurting Christine_..._his Christine_...my _Christine_...

"Christine! Christine!"

His front room was unrecognizable. Loose sheets of music were still floating to the ground, which was littered with shards of glass and books. Some of the furniture was even overturned. Before he could lay eyes on his wife, the corner of a heavy novel found his thigh, and he grunted in pain. The crashing had stopped momentarily, and Erik looked up. Christine was right in front of him, her face red and covered in tears, her hair wild, and she beat his chest, tugged on his clothes, and slapped his face.

"You _killed _him, you killed him, you monster! When did you – how could you lie to me like this? You _horrible _monster! I hate you, I hate you! Why, why did you...?" And she collapsed into his thin chest, sobbing, burying her face into his sopping-wet shirt.

Erik's mind reeled. He stood stiffly, letting Christine continue to tug on his wet clothes, twisting her fingers into his coat and weep as if her heart was broken.

"Christine...," he whispered brokenly. "Christine, I..."

"There," she cried, shoving a piece of crumpled paper into his hand. "There...Tell me why you were hiding it, why you wouldn't show it to me!"

When Erik realized just _what _was written on that paper, his stomach clenched painfully. Christine pulled away when he attempted to run a hand through her hair, and he stood alone, forlorn. She waited impatiently, wiping away the fast-falling tears.

"I – Erik..." He did not know what to say, but managed to find something suitable. "Christine, I did not want you to see this. I did not want you to hurt, to cry like you are now. I was trying to protect you."

"_Liar_! You wrote it, you forged it, trying to make me think that Raoul has given up, that he isn't coming. I don't believe you!" She picked up whatever was on the ground – a small fragment of something that Erik recognized as being an ancient and priceless china plate given to him by a lord in Asia – and threw it at him. It bounced off his chest harmlessly.

"No, dear child," he said sadly. "I did not write it. Erik cannot write things so elegantly, even if he tried. I could show you, but I do not think that you would believe me. It was only to protect your fragile heart, Christine. Your young man is now married." Although his tone was sympathetic, his heart seemed to be freezing at a rapid rate. Even after these months and all the things he'd done for her and all the things she'd said to him, she was still sobbing over Raoul de Chagny. He wanted to strangle her and then crush her to him, viciously bed her and push her into the lake. He wanted to hurt her in the same way that she was continually hurting him. The sobs were piercing his brain, annoying it beyond belief, and he suddenly and violently seized her arms.

"Stop crying! _Stop_! I will not allow _my _bride to stand here and cry over another."

Her sobs increased.

"I will lock you in your room! I can silence you, Christine, I can...It would be so easy. Quiet! You are _my _wife, not his, not that impertinent boy's, and I will not let you do this!"

"Erik – Erik!"

His fingers had crept up to her shoulders and were pressing down so hard that she knew bruises would soon appear. He gathered her hands in his, bowing his head.

"I am _tired _of fighting you, Christine," he said wearily. "Is this...is this what you want, Christine? Do you want to scream at me and hit me every time you become angry and confused? All I want from you, Christine, is – is to think of all the things we have shared, all of the nice things, and feel something other than loathing for me."

Christine opened her mouth twice, yet no words came. She stared at him, her eyes wide. He could feel her small hands trembling between his own, and he released them. They came up to cover her lips, but she continued to stare, her eyes once again filling with tears. This time, however, they did not fall. Her eyes were full of confusion and sheer..._helplessness_. Frantically, she looked around on the floor and hurriedly began to pick up the books.

"Christine, dear, no, I will – " He attempted to take the books from her, but she clutched them protectively.

"No, I must...I must do this," she said distractedly. Nothing he said stopped her as she picked up book after book. When they were all back in their proper places, she began to gather the scattered music. It took a very, very long time. Any time Erik would attempt to help, she snapped at him and took away whatever he was holding. Unsure of just what to do with himself, he paced back and forth agitatedly, watching her flit about. She did not look at him but instead focused on gathering all the glass bits and debris that littered the floor. The cleaning took hours, and Christine trembled as badly as ever by the end. Erik noticed, with an uncomfortable jerking somewhere near his heart, that her fingertips were bloody, a result of picking up all the jagged shards.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she whispered. He had put her on the couch and was busily cleaning her small cuts, but he did not reply. "I'm sorry. I was so...so angry at Raoul. I felt as though he had betrayed me – but you don't wish to hear that." She was not unaware of the tighter grip he had on her hands when the boy's name was mentioned. "It wasn't your fault, and I made it out to be. I'm sorry that I hurt you, and that I broke all your pretty things." She swallowed a muffled sob. "You're always doing the right things. You always want to make me happy, and I'm so terribly selfish."

Erik shifted uncomfortably. _He _was, in fact, the most selfish thing alive, and the idea that Christine was blaming herself for things that she should rightly feel made his face grow very warm, indeed.

"I should not have said and done things that I did," he muttered in reply, examining her fingertips and gingerly wiping off a welling drop of blood.

"I do not hate you," Christine said. "I...I don't know what I feel, Erik, but it is not hate."

"Will you ever know?" he ventured to ask, but perhaps he did not wish to have an answer.

"Yes. I'm sure that someday I will." Christine thanked him for cleaning her fingers. "I don't wish to fight anymore, either, Erik," she said earnestly. "We try so hard, and yet I always do something stupid."

"Quit blaming yourself," he snapped irritably. "We both know very well that it is my fault."

She was quiet, her sniffling still pitiful and painfully adorable. There was a long, awkward stretch of silence, and Erik busied himself with tidying up all his medical supplies. A small pressure was put on his forearm, and he stiffened.

"Erik?" Christine whispered, her voice so soft that he was forced to be very quiet to hear. "I...I know you probably do not wish to, but...I really need...would you – would you hold me?"

He dropped his supplies and looked at her. She did not retract her question but merely looked at him pleadingly. Somehow Erik managed to sit himself on the couch, and Christine immediately snuggled against him, resting her head on his cold, solid chest. His shirt and waistcoat were still slightly damp. It was very much worth it to Christine. The growing desperation in her heart had to be stopped; the physical contact that had been withdrawn for so long had to be revived. If Erik was the one she could touch, she would endure for several minutes. Christine heard a heart beating, pounding rhythmically beneath her, and she was able to convince herself that Erik was alive. His chest rose in and out gently.

This was all very forced. Erik took great care not to gasp or overexcite himself. Christine looked so..._content _there. Her feet were tucked under her skirts on the couch, and her arm was thrown out lazily across his stomach. This physical contact, so frustratingly common for Christine, spread a ridiculous grin across Erik's grotesque features, and he was grateful for the mask.

"Erik?"

"Yes, my pet?"

"Do you love me?"

"Of course, dear. More than anything – how could you even ask this?"

"Even after I broke your pretty things?"

To his great surprise, he wished to chuckle, but didn't. "Even after you broke my pretty things. I will always love you, Christine."

Within a few short minutes, Christine was asleep on her husband's chest.


	22. Chapter 22

For one odd hour, laughter rang through the queer house under the Opera House. A man was telling his wife a story, and her eyes were filling with tears from her giggles. The masked man was doing all the voices, too: even a shrill woman's voice which delighted Christine to no end.

"'Take him away!' the old hag shrieked. And, simply for an afternoon with a horrible cat, I was put in that absurd prison of theirs for nearly a month." Erik ended his story simply, and he sat still for the response. He did not bother to mention that he was barely alive when he was released. They had prepared a very particular cell, and forever present around it were twenty heavily guarded men. There was no need to alarm her...or, worse, make her happy with the thought.

Christine laughed into her hand, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, Erik, do they really love cats like that?"

"Oh, yes, dear. Their cats are nobility."

"That's very silly," she giggled happily. She glanced up at the clock and rose from her spot. "I should leave, so that I may be back before dark. Thank you, Erik."

Her husband sighed quietly and rose to accompany her. He had been trying to drag his story out for as long as he could, hoping to detain her long enough that she would no longer have enough time to leave. However, she had wanted this outing for many days, and he decided that an afternoon wouldn't cause any damage. Christine chattered happily until the two reached the gates, and she took leave with a charming smile that Erik was so fond of. Patiently, he stood stiffly until she was just out of sight, and then, cat-like, followed her.

It was always so tedious to hide in mid-afternoon, and that silly, lovely girl was always so fond of submerging herself in large, colorful crowds. Erik was forced to employ his ventriloquism many times during the small outing, though he did enjoy the terrified faces that ran away blindly from the menacing voice. He had not bothered to keep track of how much time had passed since that fateful letter had finally taken Christine those small drops of hope that had been holding her back from being the dear, wonderful girl that she really was. She had not spoken about it, and Erik was ashamed to admit that he appreciated her inner suffering. How would he comfort her in a situation like this? _If _she was hurting inside, she did a very good job of acting otherwise. The morning's story had been an epitome of her recent mood.

The man followed her to a small, cramped shop. Christine had been talking about a new pair of gloves that she simply 'had to have,' and he had finally given her the money to buy them. She emerged much later than he had predicted, and he breathed a small sigh of relief, for he had grown nervous and was considering walking into the shop himself. When his dear wife came out, he nearly chuckled; she had purchased much more than she went in for; he could see that by the bundle in her arms. Her small, white hands, however, were covered in fine cream gloves. Readjusting the package in her arms, she dived into the crowd and began to swim against the current, keeping a strong hold on her purchases.

His golden eyes ever present, he watched her bump and slide against endless people. Hisses would always escape his throat every time he saw men double-take when she passed. Well, of course they would; _his _wife was beautiful...She was _his_.

Christine finally emerged from the crowd, letting the gentle, soft breeze play with her golden hair. He swallowed a groan; the girl was taking an unnecessary walk through the park. It would eat at least thirty minutes, which meant Erik would have to wait longer to smell her or touch her, and the park always took much longer to find spots to hide in.

Minutes passed. Christine sat down on a park bench and placed the package beside her. She looked very content to sit there as long as she pleased. Her husband watched her dotingly, his golden eyes never leaving her, and he wondered what she would do if he was to join her.

Quite suddenly, someone was next to Christine. It was a fair-haired man with an expensive-looking walking cane. Erik never bought anything except the finest of dresses for his wife, and there was no doubt that the man had become interested. Erik's jaw set, and he clenched his white hands. Confident Christine would be polite and yet inform the man of her married state, he waited...and waited...

She was smiling and nodding. The man had taken a seat beside her, twirling his cane between his hands. His face looked like that of a pug, with an incredibly upturned nose and large, watery eyes. Erik's breath was coming in short pants. The stupid man slid closer to Christine, who held up her left hand. Adrenaline was rushing through the masked man's veins...his head was swimming...A white-gloved hand clutched Christine's fair, delicate hand, and, before Erik had realized what was happening, he was beside the two with the gentleman's cane in his bony, long-fingered hands.

"Erik – " Christine's voice came out as half of a whisper and half of a gasp. She tore her hand away from the white glove, and the pug-faced man looked around at Erik. Christine shrieked and shielded her face with her hands as the end of the cane crashed down upon the man's face before another word was spoken. He fell heavily to the ground, blood beginning to pool around his head. Erik, his thin chest rising and falling in a rapid manner, looked at Christine, who was pale and fighting back a rising sickness in her throat.

"He touched you," Erik said mechanically, and he bent over and grabbed Christine's wrist. The couple hurried along the darkening Parisian streets, tears beginning to flow down Christine's ghostly cheeks. The poor gentleman was likely dead...She had witnessed murder...When Erik snapped sharply at her for attempting to rest, she began to fear for her own safety. Erik always cared for her comfort and safety; he _wanted _her happiness. And now he was dragging her through the streets, clutching her wrist once again. Things had never boded well when he was in a state like this.

"Erik," she pleaded, "Erik, please; he just didn't spot my wedding ring – that's it! I was about to tell him, but then you – "

She was jerked through the gates of the Rue Scribe so roughly that she tripped over her own feet, landing on her knees with a soft cry. Unceremoniously, he picked her up and swung her over his shoulder like a heavy bag of flour. Christine remembered little of the long walk down to his house; she cried and begged a lot. Erik was mute throughout the whole thing. Her body was beginning to ache, and she wondered how his was feeling. Although he was frighteningly strong, carrying her down five stories must have been something of a challenge. Erik made no complaint, no gesture, no miscalculated step to show that he was in pain.

Christine was deposited at his feet in her bedroom, right at the foot of her large bed. A whimper escaped her throat, and she cowered when he returned from another room. His hands bore large and thick rope. Her attempted flight was quickly put to a stop as he forced her to sit by her bedpost. Immediately, his murderous hands began to work, pulling and tying, ignoring her choking cries.

"Christine cannot leave now," he muttered to himself. "She will not leave Erik again; he would not be able to live. Yes, this is best; don't cry, my dear love. Erik is ensuring your safety." After which he pulled viciously on the rope to inspect its hold; Christine gasped as it cut into her wrists, and Erik seemed satisfied, for he left, shutting the door curtly behind him.

Hours into this, Christine knew that she would never survive hell, for she believed nothing could be worse than what had been done to her. She cried, screamed, and pled until her voice was gone, yet nothing wielded success. For a very long time, there was loud crashing, but then it went into abrupt silence. Her arms were so heavy from being tied behind her back, which ached ferociously. Hours went past – maybe days. She dozed once, though when she slumped over tiredly, the bonds sliced her wrists, and she immediately shot up with a hoarse cry of pain.

Erik did come in once. She let out a strangled moan of relief when he knelt by her. However, all her husband did was run his long fingers down her cheek, and her tears splashed onto his hand.

"Please," she rasped, her voice weak and sore. "Erik."

The masked man had already left the room before she could say anything else. It wasn't the fact that she was hungry, tired, aching, and horribly thirsty – no, it was the fact that Erik had tied her up as punishment for speaking with a man for mere seconds. She shivered to think of what he would have done if the man's lips had touched her hand.

Christine shivered once again at the thought that Erik would never untie her; he would be forced to care for her every need, and the thought was sickening. Her wrists were too hurt to struggle anymore, and she sat on the floor limply, her feet sprawled out and her head drooping. Erik would never let her leave the house again...Not after this and the fact that she gave away her money to dangerous people.

How she ached! Every limb was constantly screaming in protest; her head itself was pounding mercilessly. She was tempted to scream simply from the pain, but the only sound that would come out would be a muffled cry. And she could not remember how it felt _not _to be in pain. There was no memory of being able to stand, walk, run. The only thing in her mind was the oceans of suffering, the feeling of the rope, the pounding in her head. It was impossible that mere hours ago she walked and spoke and had a clear, concise thought. She needed water and food; she needed a cool bath; she needed somewhere soft; she needed _someone _soft...

As if Erik was reading her mind (indeed, sometimes she thought he could), he burst in wildly, looking at her as if surprised to see her tied to her bed and sitting on the floor. She looked up wearily, breathing slowly. When he once again dropped to his knees, Christine wasn't able to say anything. His fingers began to fumble with the ropes, yet she merely waited, too tired to react.

"Oh, Christine!" he sobbed. "Oh, my dear – please, please forgive Erik! I...I didn't know what I was doing. It was...all a haze. That man – how Erik _hates _him! Here, darling, Erik will make you better; everything will be perfectly fine. There."

The ropes were finally fully removed, and Christine only managed to slouch forward. It didn't surprise her that she was hardly able to sit up, much less stand. Erik cried into her hair and picked her up; she wasn't in a position to object, so she allowed him to put her on the couch in the front room and remove her shoes, kissing her feet and wetting her stockings with the tears that dripped from his eyes.

When he pressed a glass of water to her lips, most of it spilled onto her neck, yet Christine managed to gulp some down, though it seemed to require all her energy to swallow. Erik quickly dried her neck with his handkerchief and petted her hair softly. He then examined her wrists, and the sight renewed his sobs. There was a ring of red around both of them; the flesh was raw and open, and he cleaned them extremely carefully, unwilling to hurt her and constantly offering apologies to her.

"Christine – my Christine – does that pain you? Just shake your head, dear. Oh, Erik is the most wretched man alive!"

He bandaged them lovingly, constantly stroking her hair or pressing his ugly lips to her wrists; she could hardly move, much less speak, though she realized that she did not particularly care about his lips. Erik left for a minute and returned with a pillow and blankets. He then positioned her lovingly, tucking the soft blankets around her and whispering loving and caressing words.

"Sleep now, Christine," he coaxed, running a thin hand through her hair. "You will eat when you wake. I will play for you."

It was unnecessary, for she was asleep before he even sat down on the bench. He played anyway – mainly to distract himself, though it was quite fruitless. This deformed and ugly creature had willingly hurt the thing he loved most on the face of the earth, and his fingers stopped abruptly as his shoulders began to shake once again. Although most of it _was _hazy, he could still recall her screams: _they echoed in his head as he smashed his room to pieces. Her terrified and tear-streaked face swam in and out of his hot red sea of hate and anger, and, blessedly, he lost consciousness soon._

_Everything was vivid when he woke. His back was stiff, and he groaned slightly as he sat up, noticing his room. As he agitatedly chafed his ear, Erik was relieved when he realized that none of his anger had come into contact with Christine; he had taken it out on his room, and he considered himself quite an excellent controller of his temper._

_Speaking of Christine...He straightened himself out quickly before cautiously looking out of his room. The house was dead silent. Erik frowned and glanced at his pocket watch. Usually Christine was still up and active at 4:30 in the afternoon. After making a quick sweep of the house and still having no success, he decided that she must still be asleep. The door to her room seemed to slow him, and he stopped a few feet away, his brain beginning to pound. Suddenly, memories of her screams erupted in his head, a vision of crimson anger veiling her features, and he could remember binding her wrists cruelly, making the knots as painful as he could. It was malicious: the victim couldn't struggle much without the ropes biting flesh._

_Erik nearly fell to the floor, moaning and covering his head, gripping his hair agitatedly. A small cough escaped from the other side, and he positively flew into the room, all tears and apologies._

Even now, he was sure he was about to curl up and die of shame. Gasping, sobbing, choking, he crawled toward her sleeping figure on his hands and knees, imploring her subconscious mind for the forgiveness he had always wanted but never had the courage to ask for. He gently held her wrists, careful to keep the salty tears away from the fresh bandages, and he ghosted his shapeless lips over the palm and cloth. Christine didn't stir once.

She slept for hours...and during that time Erik only moved to prepare her food. He waited by her side, a faithful servant, watching her pale face for any changes. Once, he had the audacity to rest his forehead lightly on her expanding stomach but suddenly felt so evil that he jerked away and groaned apologetically to her sleeping face.

It was wonderful to see her wake for once; she frowned slightly, knitting her brows with a delicacy that he could never dream of mastering, and she shifted before snapping open her eyes and crying out hoarsely. He was fretting over her in an instant.

"Darling, darling, how are you? Do you feel better?"

To his horror, her eyes welled up with tears, and she shook her head.

"No? Oh, my love, Erik doesn't deserve to live! Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere," she groaned tiredly, closing her eyes.

"Do not worry," he crooned, running a hand down her arm. "Erik will make sure you're never hurt again." With the little strength she had, she turned away, her eyes filling with moisture. Her entire body was aching, screaming, and her head was pounding. All she wanted was Erik to stop whining, stop pestering her, and let her sleep...But she could not fall asleep with his monstrous hands all over her.

"Leave me alone," she whispered.

To her slight surprise, he left her at once...but he returned, bearing a heavy tray full of fruits and steaming drinks. Christine, with a pathetic whimper, pushed herself to a sitting position. He attempted to help but fell still at her glare. Shaking and trembling, Christine ate most of what was presented to her, and the cups warmed her hands. Full and feeling considerably better, she sank down into the couch once again, ready for more pain-free sleep. An irritated sigh escaped her as she felt his cold fingers brush her sleeve.

"I will not insult you by asking for your forgiveness," he said softly.

Christine, biting back a moan, rolled over so she could look into his pleading eyes which searched her face hopefully.

"A good Christian forgives his trespassers seventy times seven," was her soft, noncommittal reply.

"And...and are you a good Christian?"

There was a heavy silence, and Christine lowered her eyes. "I try to be. Are you?"

"No," he answered mournfully. "Erik has almost killed his pretty wife."

"They were accidents," Christine offered; however, her tone betrayed her belief. "But are you a good Christian, Erik? Do you forgive and forget? Do you love unconditionally?"

"No. No, I am not a good Christian. I don't care much for religion, anyway. There has obviously been little dealing with my birth and life." He fingered his mask gently.

Another sigh escaped Christine, and she closed her eyes tiredly. A few seconds later, they snapped open. Erik's arms slipped around her and picked her up gently.

"Erik! Put me down!"

He pushed open the door to her bedroom, carrying her as if she was a delicate and exquisite piece of glass, and laid her down on the bed.

"I am sorry, Christine," was his farewell. "I will not ask for your forgiveness, but...I am sorry."

As he made his way toward the door, Christine felt a cold tear slip down her nose. She _wanted _to forgive him...but her heart pounded angrily whenever she thought of his cold hands binding her wrists. Overwhelmed with guilt and pain, Christine drifted off into a tortured sleep with the lie _tomorrow will be better_.


	23. Chapter 23

**Happy Holidays! I hope this is an acceptable gift. I wasn't going to post, but I realized how rude it would be to leave this happy day with something depressing and sad. So, here it is!**

* * *

_This isn't fair at all_, Christine thought angrily to herself, shoving her arm into a small and restricting sleeve. She had woken feeling quite sick, but it was the result of a reason she did not want Erik to question, so Christine had crawled out of bed and irritably pulled a dress out.

For once, she thought how strange and easy it would be to be a man. The male sex did not have to shove their bodies into tight dresses every day. They were stronger and faster; none of their kind worried about being assaulted in a dark alley; or being assaulted by their own spouses....

Christine's mood sobered severely, and she finished dressing hurriedly, trying to extinguish the thoughts that were erupting in her mind. It had been more than two weeks since she had last been out...since she had witnessed murder. Nearly doubling, she calmed her breath. Without fail, nausea washed over her whenever she pictured that man and the blood that gushed from his face, of which she had caught a glimpse. It looked as if one side had simply caved in, but in a bloody and gruesome manner. And since that time, it seemed as if Erik was afraid to simply _look _at her. When addressing her (which was rare), he stared fixedly at the ground. He was gone so often that Christine was more surprised to find him in the house than not. This morning was no different. She emerged to an empty and cold sitting room.

After checking the kitchen and finding the only company she had was a lukewarm breakfast plate, she sat with a sigh and stabbed moodily at the food. Everything was well-stocked; Erik had plenty of paper and ink, and the food was now never at a low. When she had casually asked how the opera had been coming along, he muttered, "Very well," and then had hurriedly taken his leave.

Erik constantly felt ill; he was positive Christine absolutely hated him. _He_, her adoring, devoted husband, had almost killed her. He had betrayed her trust and tied her up like an insolent, stupid animal: a possession. Every time they were close, he could only imagine the look she was giving him. Endless glares of disgust and loathing were probably burning his back whenever it faced his dear wife. This, however, gave him an excuse and a drive to the ideas that had been planted in his head, nourished and encouraged by Christine, but eventually blossoming by his own hands. He was sure she always had a meal. Other than this small contribution, he left her alone.

The young woman would have thought, given her previous encounters of being abandoned, that she had grown used to solitude, and yet each time, it merely whetted her appetite for company. Her only choice, however, was her strange husband, who fled from her as if she had the Black Death. The time had passed when she would cower in her room, timid, a frightened little girl. Hadn't she proved to herself countless times that she was no longer the shy, pathetic girl that Erik dragged to his underworld? The inner strength that she had never needed was now required more than ever, and she used every ounce that she could. When he came home to fix her dinner, she stood in the kitchen and watched him. Erik would not look her in the eye.

"I thought we had agreed that I would fix my own meals," she said lightly, hoping to drag a conversation out of his silence.

For once, his hands were clumsy, and the knife slipped slightly in his fingers. He swallowed. "Whatever you wish," was his quiet reply. She knew that her presence made him very uncomfortable, though she had no idea why. As soon as the food was presented, he positively ran out of the kitchen.

"Erik? Erik, where are you going?"

He did not stop as he lied, "Groceries, Christine."

The day was long and dull. As she crawled into bed that night, Christine knew that she would have to confront Erik tomorrow, for being alone like she was was gnawing away at her insides.

Perhaps it was her loneliness, but that night her dreams were filled with someone who always made her happy. She could see his house in America. It was magnificent, but inside was ugly and hurtful. Christine wandered through the halls, a ghost to the inhabitants. If only she could..._there _he was. She smiled happily and walked toward him but was stopped by another young woman, who approached Raoul with an angry frown upon her red lips.

Christine wanted to cry...or yell, but her dream figure stood silently. The mouths of husband and wife were moving, but she could hear nothing. A fight erupted. The wife, who was much taller than Christine, threw things and pointed at Raoul while her silent screams echoed around the room. Frightened and dismayed, Christine woke in confusion and anger, wiping away the tears, trying to convince herself that it was only a dream.

She had not missed the slight bump on the woman's stomach, and it sparked a hot jealousy within Christine. Raoul's child should have been resting in the Swedish soprano's stomach, not that American imbecile. Christine shivered and curled into a tight ball. It was frightening and relieving to think that she could very well die without the touch of a man. She would rest in her grave in girlish innocence, unaware of the horrors and beauty of a full marriage. Erik would, too....Though he had never told her (to which she thanked the heavens), she could not imagine another woman being able to stand his loathsome touch.

This was strange, indeed! Her love for Raoul was sweet and innocent, yet she planned to bear his children. However, Erik's love was demanding, frightening, but they had never shared a bed. The men that mattered most in her life both had an innocence and a grave maturity about them. But this was not something she wished to ponder, for it made her stomach feel slightly sick, and Christine rubbed her eyes, trying to rid her mind of the images of that horrible nightmare.

As she readied herself, she attempted to prepare and memorize a speech that she would deliver to Erik. It would be short and noncommittal. It would suggest nothing and discourage nothing. The speech would merely inform him of her loneliness and boredom. She emerged, ready to spend hours waiting, but was almost pleasantly surprised to find Erik standing in the middle of the room. He turned on his heel when he heard her door open, and his yellow eyes dropped to the floor.

"Good morning," she offered.

There was no reply. After another minute of silence, Christine approached, hiding a sigh.

"Erik, I must speak with you." Annoyed by his continued muteness, she went on, her voice now more agitated. "I wish to know what is troubling you. I cannot imagine what I have done to make you so angry with me. You avoid me altogether, and I can't stand this any more. You won't even look at me – see! It is maddening to sit by myself all day, knowing you are angry. Whatever I did, I will fix it. Please, just tell me."

Erik stared at her, apparently dumbfounded, before making a clumsy gesture toward the couch. "Please, sit, Christine," he offered hurriedly. "I...I am not angry with you. How could you even think this? Ah! It is because you are perfect, Christine, and could never blame anyone but yourself....But no more of this."

He looked highly agitated; his shoes made smart _tapping_ sounds on the stone as he paced in front of her, throwing a glance her way every so often. Christine had learned much during her months of being his wife; she sat, although not exactly patiently, but knowing that he would talk when he was ready.

"Christine, Erik...he has been gone from home quite a bit."

"I've noticed," she replied simply.

"He wants to tell you where he's been going."

Christine sat up a little straighter, looking at him with peculiar interest. His fingers fumbling anxiously, he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and pushed it into her hands. She smoothed it on her lap and swallowed harshly as she read it.

"Erik has visited your little house," he finally admitted, noticing that she smiled, but it was wary and cautious on her lips.

"He agrees with you that it is a private spot, and...and I would be willing to move with you, if it would make you happy."

Overwhelmed and overcome, Christine felt a rush of rare and delicious happiness spread through her veins. It was a joyful feeling, and she let it consume her entirely for several moments.

"Oh, Erik," she breathed, her voice full of laughter. "It would make me very, very happy."

As she looked at him, her happiness waned slightly. The news was wonderful, and she had complied – why was he still pacing?

"Erik," she said again, though this time her voice was soft, "are you sure you wish to leave the Opera House?"

"Of course I do!" he snapped hotly, and a wave of relief calmed her. "Erik wishes for a normal house with a little garden that his wife could tend....I want whatever you want, Christine. But...." Here he trailed off, running his hands over his jacket sleeves. "Christine, Erik – I – have something – something to say before Erik's wife moves into her perfect house: something you should know."

Christine was now feeling quite nervous, and she clutched her skirts tightly, though she attempted to hide her apprehension by stuttering in a falsely confident tone, "What is it?"

"You understand, darling, don't you? Erik wants only what every man would. We are joined now." His eyes closed, and he sighed heavily, his thin chest falling rapidly. "Christine...my Christine...in a normal house there...there is only – only one bedroom. One bed."

The pretty color left her cheeks instantly, and she stared at him in horror as he knelt and quickly clasped her hands in his, holding them to his forehead in a defeated manner. Tears were beginning to gather in her large blue eyes.

"Oh, don't, sweet Christine. Please," he whispered. "I – I swear I will not touch you. Erik only wants to hold his wife while she sleeps. It would be painless. Nothing would happen, he promises. Erik simply wants to see his pretty wife sleep in his arms, just as any other man would. He just wants to be normal...."

She felt his scorching tears run down her wrists and held back a sob of her own. This request, so much more demanding than that of his real kiss all those months ago, was hardly a battle. It shamed her slightly, but it was necessary. She could not survive under the earth any longer; the sunlight was temptation by which she was easily seduced. Her decision was hastily dissected and proven to be necessary.

Erik remained at her feet, sobbing into her palms and pressing them against his cool mask.

"I understand," she murmured soothingly, bringing a hand to stroke his hair softly. "Erik, I would very much like to move into the little house as soon as we are able." To her surprise, the condemning words took much less effort than she thought.

His sobs doubled, and he crept up in order to hesitantly wrap her in his skeletal and cold embrace, but, this time, she returned it fully.


	24. Chapter 24

It was two weeks before they finally left their queer home. Erik put on a façade of indifference, but, to her tremendous surprise, Christine found that she was almost sad to leave the place to which she had grown so accustomed. She had made the home her own, and she gave her bedroom a wide, sweeping glance before picking up her bag and closing the door. Erik was waiting for her, holding his violin case and a package full of music. Most of it remained, looking forlorn in the darkness that would soon become its only friend.

Christine was not unaware of how Erik's eyes lingered on his magnificent organ, and she felt immeasurable sorrow for him. Before she could offer any words of comfort, he opened the hidden door and took the bag from her. He began the ascent up the long and dreary passages, gesturing for her to follow.

Not at all anxious to repeat some episodes of what had last happened when she ventured outside his fortress, she clung to the back of his sleek, baggy jacket.

"Erik?" she ventured, her voice soft and pleading. She wished that he would say something. His stony silence was unnerving.

"Erik, are you sure you want to leave?" His pace did not falter, and he did not respond. "You've lived here for a long time," she continued. "I'm sure it's hard for you to leave. You would tell me, though, if you did not wish to go."

Still, he was quiet, tugging her down a pitch-black and windy corridor. Her excitement heightened. She could smell the outside air, so different from the musty and old scent that was forever present beneath the Opera House. Her feet, before so numb that they were no longer cold, now quickened their trudging march. She wondered momentarily if Erik was purposely taking such a long time to open the door, for she danced on her toes, peering over his tall, broad shoulders to catch the first glimpse of the outside world.

Stars glittered in the thick, black blanket that covered the blue skies. She could see her breath rising in glorious mists and reveled in the cold that swam through the air. This was _natural _chill; in the rooms of Erik's house, the cold that whispered around her was not normal. Her husband lightly pulled her attention to the carriage awaiting them past the gates of the Rue Scribe, and she followed him, though avoided the two horses, which were deep black and high-spirited. They snorted heavily and pawed anxiously, and Christine kept close to Erik, who helped her into her seat before bundling up the bags. She did not begrudge the fact that he held her hand a bit longer than necessary.

He brought his violin in with him, holding it protectively in his lap, and when the doors were shut, the horses jerked into a brisk, eager trot. Christine looked over to see Erik gazing out of the window morosely, his long, bony fingers trailing up and down the violin case gently.

The ride was uneventful; both remained silent, content with their own thoughts. It was too dark for Christine to see clearly. Occasionally, a flickering light would shine out of a small window but would disappear too fast for her to get a closer look. She found her eyes heavy and let them rest for a few minutes, but jerked herself awake when she began to drift into sleep. This was something she had waited for for...her whole life. She wanted a home with her husband. And, although these were not the circumstances she had envisioned, it was something that she accepted.

This was hard for Erik to realize. He was taking his living, breathing wife to her very own home – a home above ground, a home with a little garden and windows. As the carriage finally pulled up in front of it, he looked warily at his large purchase and then at his wife, who seemed to be having trouble staying awake. She stared at the house in wonder, blinking rapidly. Erik let out a silent chuckle.

Christine stumbled out of the carriage and nearly fell into Erik's awaiting arms but was apparently too sleepy to care, for she merely leaned against him even further. With gentleness and delicacy, he pulled her into her new home and up the stairs to the awaiting bedroom. Christine looked around her curiously, but nothing seemed register. She merely yawned and allowed Erik to place her on the bed.

With his narrow chest full of ardent adoration, Erik pulled the sheets up over her and, staring for a moment at the bed into which he knew he had permission, left his pretty wife to her rest.

----

Christine woke with something that she hadn't had the privilege of in a long time: the sun. It snuck into her room, spilling everywhere and staining the walls, carpets, and bed. She groaned tiredly and covered her eyes before recalling last night and her promise and shot up in bed. The other side, however, was empty and untouched, and she sighed before pushing the thick hair out of her face. She ambled gracelessly out of the new, unfamiliar bed and straightened to examine the room.

It was smaller than she had envisioned, but the bed was larger, and she fought back a blush. The room itself was furnished the same way her old one had been: a large bed, a writing desk, a chair, and a built-in wardrobe all surrounded her. Christine nearly giggled with delight as she approached the window, which overlooked the back of the house. Now that summer was fading, most of the trees had given up their leaves, but she found it just as beautiful as the green summers.

The house was warm and inviting. No longer were the walls cold stone; they were rich with color and paintings she grew to adore. After donning a new dress, she left her bedroom and entered a small hallway, poking into each of the rooms and finding them to be furnished comfortably. Her (_their) _bedroom was at the end of the hall, and two smaller rooms completed the upstairs. One was obviously Erik's study, as it held a large stack of new books and a long table, but the other door was locked. She knocked on it a few times, thinking Erik could be inside, but nothing was heard, and so she went downstairs.

A sitting room had been prepared for her, and a formal dining room and kitchen were joined by a large archway. Christine ventured into the kitchen to find it, predictably, well-stocked. Unaware of just where Erik was, she made them both a small breakfast of bread and milk. As she buttered the slices, a waft of cool, clean air beckoned her, and she took her meal outside, allowing the wind to play with her hair. A pale sun caressed her neck and arms, and she sat down happily, allowing a sigh of pure contentment escape.

Her husband appeared when she was beginning to tire of her meal. She set the plate aside and picked up a fallen leaf while he approached.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully, twirling the leaf between her fingers. "Your breakfast is on the table."

"Yes, yes," he replied. "Is everything to your liking? Is there anything I can change for you? Are you...happy with your house?"

Christine picked up her plate, rose from her spot, and dusted off her skirts, all the while saying, "It's quite perfect, Erik. Thank you. I adore it."

He followed her into the house and watched as she washed the dishes (his had remained untouched, and she scolded him for wasting food).

"Erik, why is that room locked upstairs?"

Stopping immediately, he turned around and studied her for a few moments. "I work in there," he replied smoothly. "I don't wish you to wander around and harm yourself."

She was about to question him further, but he turned curtly on his heel and commanded, "Come. There is something else."

Intrigued, Christine followed him out of the house. Nearby was something that resembled a shack, though better built and nicer in its exterior. Erik lifted the heavy lock and entered, taking Christine's small hand and drawing her in. A strong smell of hay and dirt hit her nose, and she peered through the musty, poor light before swallowing a small squeak of fear. A huge black horse was restlessly shifting in its make-shift stall, and it breathed heavily when its eyes rested on Erik, who approached it confidently.

The animal apparently trusted the man, for it allowed its great black head to be stroked fondly. Erik whispered soothing words in a foreign tongue, and Christine merely clutched the door in some sort of longing for physical support. As he gave the animal one last stroke, he looked at Christine.

"There is an area fenced off for him, but I do not want you outside when he is. He is...high-strung."

"I'm not afraid," Christine lied, trying to insert some false bravado in her tone.

Erik let out a sad chuckle. "Why don't you come and pet him?" he offered. The horse's eyes positively flashed, as if it understood the words, and Christine stood still. "It is not a question of bravery," Erik continued. "I will not let you get hurt."

To her great relief, he led her out of the dusty shack and back into the house. Christine paused for a minute and reflected. It was strange how utterly..._normal _the whole morning seemed to be. Erik had ceased to be an ugly monster; he had never kidnapped her, he had never torn her away from her fiancée, he had never killed anyone. Erik was simply her husband who cared for her dearly. He had sacrificed his comfort for hers. She was not unaware of how uncertain he had been when they had been in the carriage. And, although it might have been a sin, it was nice to be normal for one day.


	25. Chapter 25

**I lah-va you all. Thanks for the reviews! And don't forget to visit my poll and vote. I'm wrapping this story up as you read this, and I have first chapters for all the options on my poll. Go ahead and vote! Thanks!**

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There was no use stalling anymore. Christine felt her dread mount with each step that took her closer to her bedroom. For hours she had been inventing excuses to stay up later and later until she realized how childish she was being and announced her plans to retire. Erik's golden eyes flashed to hers; a jolt of understanding passed through both of them, and he returned to his work, silent as she left the room. It took many minutes for her to struggle into her nightgown, glancing into the small mirror that Erik had retained only for her benefit. The face that stared back was pale and terrified.

_Stop being a ninny_, she scolded herself. _Nothing is going to happen_. _He promised me_.

Finally, she lay in the bed that had been heated by the sunlight; it still remained in the sheets, yet Christine shivered as she put her head on the pillow, for she heard the door creak open. As she quickly wrapped her arms around her stomach in an unconscious defense, his heavy footsteps neared the bed; the young woman began to tremble after he had removed his shoes, coat, and waistcoat. The mattress weight shifted. A corpse was lying in the bed with her.

Absolute silence reigned. Christine, rigid in all possible senses, did not move when she felt his hand probe at her arm. He wished for easier access to her waist. Although he was initiating all contact, his nervousness and hesitancy portrayed themselves in every possible way. It was quite a strange situation; Christine had never shared a bed with anyone, not even when her father was alive. If the two rested at an Inn, Christine slept in the bed while her father dozed in the hard chairs. When she asked why he did this, he had chuckled warmly and said, "That spot, Christine, is reserved for your handsome husband."

The feel of her 'handsome' husband beside her, his long arms holding her, his breath on her neck, his knee touching her thigh, was something she took in slowly. When he gingerly pulled her closer, she stiffened, and he immediately stopped, allowing himself to be content with what he had.

Neither slept well that night. Christine was terrified that she might drift off into sleep and Erik would not be able to control himself; Erik was worried about the same thing. He would not allow himself to doze. His mind might wander, and his hands would follow. Breaking his promises to Christine was not something he wished to do. As the night ticked on, he sensed her slowly drift off into a light sleep. When she woke, Erik was gone, and she stared at her drawn face in the mirror for several minutes. Not a single tear slipped out of her eyes.

It took many, many nights before Christine was somewhat comfortable with Erik sleeping beside her. Their routine was simple: he allowed her time to dress and slip into bed, after which he would enter and settle himself beside her. He was always gone when she rose, and he had never woken her up when he left in the mornings. Erik left early every morning to ride the few miles back to Paris and slip into the Opera House. It wasn't as if he wanted to do manual labor to support his wife! He observed rehearsals and wrote critique and advice before reminding the managers of his salary. He considered his payment of 20,000 francs quite a stretch for all he did for the Opera House, and he was thinking of raising his price. Erik had a house now, not to mention a wife to care for. When he returned home, Christine was nearly always outside, doing something or the other. He would then shepherd her inside because the horse was going to be let out.

In the afternoons, Christine never asked why he was cutting holes in the floors or nailing things to the wall. He worked on the house tirelessly. Many times, driven by her boredom, she would sit and watch him work. A hole had been cut right into the wall, and his upper torso was completely in it, leaving only his long legs for her to examine.

"Erik, what is your favorite book?" she asked, watching as his left leg shifted up slightly.

"Too many to name, my dear," he replied, his voice muffled. There was a slight _clunk_, and his thigh muscles tightened suddenly as he said many words under his breath. Christine assumed they were not pleasant, because his tongue was not French.

"When did you realize you had such a gift for music?"

There was no reply for a while, and his shoes scraped the floor in order to further push himself into the wall.

"I don't know if you would call it a 'gift,' but it was when an old priest came to my house. He had brought some choral music with him, and when Erik saw it...it was as if I had known that it was to be my calling in life. Now, quiet for a minute, darling."

Sounds of heavy shifting seeped into the room, and Christine listened with interest as something dropped to the floor. Erik completely turned over, his heels pointing to the ceiling, and a steady string of soft, unintelligible words came from the hole in the wall. When there was a minute of silence and he had turned over once again, Christine ventured her next question:

"What would you like for supper?"

He sighed. "Whatever you wish is fine."

"You never eat anything, Erik," she pestered. The knee of his right leg pointed to the ceiling, making a strange arrow.

"I eat," he said indifferently.

"You will eat with me tonight, won't you?"

Erik was still for a few moments. "If that is what you want."

There was a final, loud _click_, and Erik crawled out, his shirt covered in dirt and grime. His yellow eyes rested for a moment on Christine, and the hard expression softened.

"You are a very good wife," he muttered, turning back to the wall. The next morning, no matter how hard she looked, she could not find where the hole had been.

As she was putting some final touches on her sitting room, a thundering of hooves began to grow louder, and she rushed to the front window. It sounded as if twenty horses were coming this way, but there was only one, a large, coal-black beast, with its rider dressed to match. The horse skidded to a halt in front of the house, tossing its magnificent head, and Erik, as if his years had no burden to cast upon him, jumped lightly from its back. Christine watched as he grabbed the bridle, but the horse was quite willing to follow him anyway, and it allowed itself to be led around the house.

She gave a silly laugh as she turned around. The horse frightened her a great deal, and she finally became aware that she had been holding her breath while it was in view. Christine had a distinct feeling that the horse, although it had only set eyes on her once or twice, did not care for her at all, and would be pleased with itself if it was allowed to trample her to death. But, as she heard the back door open and close, she chided herself. _It is only a horse_.

Pretending to be busy, she did not look up when Erik entered the room. He stood still for many minutes, watching as she flitted about here and there. When she finally looked up at him, however, she stopped. He was holding a large box in his hands, and she eyed it cautiously as he held it out to her.

"It's for you," he needlessly supplied.

"Erik, you shouldn't have given me anything," she said. But she took the box nonetheless.

The yellow eyes searched her face as she opened up her gift. He was relieved to see a look of happy wonder pass through her eyes as she lifted the dress. It shimmered and twisted in ways that made her eyes ache, and she stared at it for many minutes.

"Erik, it's...." She could not find the right words to say, but instead clutched the gift tightly, afraid that it would disappear. Even after all that she had been through, Christine was still a young woman, and the beautiful dress seemed to call to her, seduce her, enchant her senses.

"You do like it?" Erik asked nervously, twisting his hands. "It was the only one, and Erik made sure it was tailored to fit you. Are you displeased?"

Christine laughed, her voice a soft and sweet bell. "Of course not!" As her euphoria dimmed, her rational mind bloomed. "But...why would I need this? I don't entertain, nor do I go to town."

Erik took the dress from her and fingered it before pressing a sleeve next to her arm, as if to see what effect the color would have on her skin. "I will not have Erik's wife dressed as a pauper. There is no need. I will give you Paris, if you wish." He was silent for a moment. "Put it on." When she questioned him with a glance, he snapped, "Put it on! Erik must see it on you."

When she returned, pulling nervously at the skirts, Erik continued to pace, muttering distractedly to himself. His abrupt changes in his moods were something that Christine was quite accustomed to, and, although they never left her with a sense of security, she knew that it was always best to allow him to vent his emotions. He did not look at her once and rubbed his ear.

"Very good. Go to bed."

Christine's cheeks turned rather red. "It is only three o' clock!" she said defiantly.

"_Go to bed_!" he shouted furiously, slamming his large fist into a wall.

The young woman sighed before obeying her husband's command. As she trailed down the upstairs hall, she heard his heavy footsteps hurry up the stairs, and his cold hand encircled her wrist.

"Christine – Christine, come downstairs. Do be a good wife for Erik; he is quite mad sometimes, as you know. I will take out my violin for you; your pretty ears have longed for music, I know."

In her heavy and expensive gown, she allowed herself to be pulled downstairs, unwilling to work herself into a confused frenzy. Erik pushed her down on the couch and tucked the violin under his chin.

"Do you hate me, Christine?" he asked, fingering the neck of the delicate instrument.

"When you are angry with me for no definable reason," she said evenly.

"I am very ugly, am I not?" was his next peculiar question. "No – be silent, for Erik's music is beautiful." The bow lightly touched the glorious strings, and the house grew warm with such angelic sounds.

As he played, Christine watched him as if for the first time. His golden eyes were lowered, concentrating on his instrument. They would close from time to time, embracing his first love. She watched his long, thin body sway slightly, under the spell of his own doing, and his bony wrist gracefully swept up and down, hypnotizing her with the smooth, continuous movement. The sight was not repulsive; on the contrary, it was very appealing. The song continued, the strings singing such sweet music, and Christine took in the sights and sounds.

Yes; in his own, strange way, Erik was very beautiful, indeed.


	26. Chapter 26

**I'm closing my poll on the first of February. Thanks for reviews!**

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Snow began to lazily drift down one afternoon. It was wet and cold, and Christine was highly irritated with it, for Erik had banished her to the house.

"Something might happen, and Erik would not be here to help you," he said seriously.

Christine laughed. "It is just as dangerous inside as it is outside. I could cut myself or fall down the stairs. The worst that could happen to me outside is slipping on ice."

He refused to listen and strictly told her not to venture out in the mornings, but he promised that she could go out when he was home. One particular afternoon, Erik had not returned, and Christine feared that she would drive herself into hysterics, for she had nothing to do. Feeling very devious and sinful, she bundled herself up and, cautiously, entered into the strange, white world.

_I won_'_t be out for very long_, she rationalized. _Only for a turn around the house_.

The patterns in the snow delighted her, and she studied them interestedly, taking one slow step at a time. She traced a pattern into the soft crystal and watched the falling white fill it up quickly. Silence pressed down upon her, all sounds muffled by the snow, and she simply watched her breath rise to heaven for several minutes. For one brief moment, life ceased to exist, all covered by the snow, and she was the only being standing in the ethereal, white world. It was all quite beautiful.

A loud, piercing _crack_ echoed, shattering all magnificence and stillness, and Christine shrieked before pressing a hand to her mouth. Without pause, she hurried into the house, shedding her wet garments with something of a frantic madness. If Erik discovered she had been out, he would be furious – something greater than furious. She draped her dress over a chair, placing the hem close to the fire (Erik always had a fire going for her with a neat pile of wood next to it, but it was her decision to keep it alive or not). As she flung a dry dress onto her body, Christine prayed with fervent earnest that Erik would not be home soon. Her face paled as she realized that she had probably gotten snow all over the floors downstairs, and, making sure that the dress would not catch fire, rushed downstairs to mop it all up and worked with manic energy.

He wouldn't hurt her...she hoped. Not that he hadn't hurt her before, but those were different circumstances, out of her control. How he would react to this if he found out, she decided not to think about.

She rushed back upstairs and put the still semi-damp dress back into her wardrobe. When the closet door shut, she heard the downstairs door open, and, with what she hoped were muffled footsteps, she entered his chilly library, picked up the first book she saw, and waited.

When Erik entered, he observed his wife, her nose stuck into the book with apparent interest.

"Good afternoon," he offered courteously.

She nodded, her vivaciously red lips tight.

"Why did you not bring the book downstairs?" he asked curiously. "It is terribly drafty in here."

Christine's mind raced, but he did not want an answer and continued,

"You changed your dress."

Her eyes snapped up to his. "How did you know?" she ventured, careful to keep her voice from shaking.

Erik entered farther into the room. "Erik knows everything," was his vague answer.

"I spilled something on it," said Christine casually.

"Ah, is that why there is no food waiting downstairs? No – don't get up. I was merely surprised. My little wife usually has _something _waiting for me. And that also explains why the floors are wet, I suppose."

"Yes," the young woman confirmed, and she hid her face behind the book.

"What are you reading?" Erik inquired, stepping closer and taking the book Christine offered. "Why, Christine, you surprise me! Have you taught yourself English?"

With this remark, Christine knew that she was lost. "I – I was merely looking through it," she said, her voice growing quiet.

"Hmm, yes, it must be very interesting," he replied cruelly, and he flipped through the endless pages of words.

"I will make supper now," Christine said, scrambling to her feet and hurrying past her husband, who, instead of letting her past, clutched her hand in his large, dead ones.

"You don't look well," he observed, pulling her to stand directly in front of him. "Your face is quite pale, and yet your cheeks are red, along with your nose. Did you know your nose is beautiful, Christine? You should be thankful for it. Perhaps you should retire. You look ill."

"Why do you do this?" she demanded, giving up her pretense. "You toy with me – it will drive me insane! I only wanted to be out for a minute; nothing happened."

"Do you not believe Erik? Do you think bad things will not happen to you outside without him?" His grip on her hand tightened slightly. "Come."

When he had fetched her shawl, he pulled her downstairs. Christine, still attempting to put off an air of defiance, began to slow when he led her to the door.

With his bony hand, he opened the door wide, watching her with his strange golden eyes.

"Go on."

As she passed, Christine looked at him fearfully, wondering what trick he would do. The door shut behind her when her feet had touched the cold snow. Her golden curls bounced as she looked fearfully at the closed door and then turned her gaze to the blinding white.

Something, however, blemished the virgin snow, and Christine's cheeks paled to match the ground beneath her feet. The huge black horse was pawing the ground eagerly, tossing its head, and Christine quickly backed into the door. The animal's breath rose in great, visible steams, and it pranced about impatiently. To her terror, it galloped but then jerked the other way, still throwing its head. If the beast was smart enough to purposely frighten her like this, she considered it an unnaturally clever devil, for she was positively sitting on the ground, covering her face with her arms.

She could hear its large hoofs approach, and she gave a cry into her arms. Suddenly, she was no longer on the ground outside, but inside, and Erik stood beside her. She slowly forced her breathing to return to normal, and she could still feel Erik's eyes on her. When she had calmed down, Christine was relieved to realize that his anger had cooled. It was frightening how acutely she could sense his moods.

"I will make your supper tonight," was his dismissal.

Christine nodded, trying frantically to keep the tears out of her eyes, before taking her leave to sit by the fire, and she spent a very long times staring into the flames. Erik brought the meal to her, but she ate little. That night, she fell asleep without him next to her, and, by the feel of the bed the next morning, she knew that he had not been there at all.

The fact hurt her slightly.

----

Many weeks passed. Christine knew that the two had completely skipped Christmas, but Erik had never mentioned it, and she thought it unwise to do so. The white days passed slowly, lonely, and Christine spent most of it close to the fire, attempting to improve her hand at sewing. Erik brought her home several balls of yarn and knitting needles at her request, and she made quick use of them. She kept nothing she made, finding them crude and useless, but it occupied her mind and hands when all her chores for the day were accomplished.

Her skills in the kitchen had also improved. When she realized that she was becoming more and more the wife that Erik wished for, it did not dampen her efforts. She continued to do all things with a whole-hearted effort.

However, it was with some embarrassment that she found herself waiting by the door for Erik's return every night. She longed for conversation, for company, and Erik was always so interesting. He was full of new things to tell her or teach her. The house was forever empty when he was absent, and she never ventured outside without him.

And so, one night Christine found herself staring out the window, waiting for her husband to return. The clock on the mantle had ticked away four hours longer than his usual return time. It was dark outside, and Christine peered out hopefully, straining her eyes to see the black in the black. A tight knot of fear had built up inside her stomach, and she tapped her foot impatiently, twisting her skirts around. Her hands were sore from knitting, her eyes from reading, and her stomach was full. The only thing she could think of doing was waiting anxiously, worriedly for his return.

The snow had finally stopped, and now the world was cold and positively frozen. Thick clouds covered the moon and stars, and, as she looked into the bleak night, the knot tightened in her stomach, and her mind raced.

_What if he never comes back_? _What if he_'_s been injured_? _What if something dreadful has happened_? _What am I to do_? _I_'_ve nowhere to go_....

As the night progressed, and the clock's dull _tick_, _tock _got louder and louder in her ears, Christine began to suppress a panic that was starting in her chest. A small, defeated voice told her to go to bed: he would be home in the morning. The voice was crushed quickly. Even if Christine dragged herself up to bed, she knew that she would not sleep. Minutes slid by mercilessly, and she was forced to take several deep breaths to avoid dissolving into hysterical sobs. Unconsciously, she bit her thumbnail as she paced worriedly.

And, finally, her ears picked up the familiar sound of thundering hooves. Rushing over to the window, she gave a cry of delight to make out the large shape that was approaching the house rapidly. Christine ran outside, overjoyed, when the horse finally came to a hard stop. The animal still frightened her, but she did not let that keep her inside.

"Erik!"

When she was close (though still at a considerable distance), her heart fluttered when she saw Erik slide gracelessly from the beast's back. He always leapt off with his common elegance, but he leaned against the horse's large flank for a minute before taking the bridle and wordlessly leading it around the house.

"Erik?"

He looked at her as if just noticing that she was there. "Christine, dear, would you mind heating some water?" His voice was tired, and it held an edge of slight pain.

"No – yes," she said breathlessly.

It took him a very long time to finally enter the house. Christine was waiting for him, her blue eyes sharp and observant. He was slouched, his entire body dusted with flecks of snow and ice, and he walked with unusual tiredness.

"Erik, what's wrong?" demanded she.

He looked at her. "Is the water warm yet?"

"No," she said impatiently. "What happened? What's wrong?"

A hiss escaped as he shed his heavy cloak. Christine drew closer, and Erik took a step back.

"Is the water warm?"

"No."

He and stuck it in the water after pulling off his glove. "It is warm enough."

Without another word, he took it and disappeared upstairs. Christine, stunned for a brief moment, followed him. A door slamming shut echoed around the silent house. With the knot of worry still present in her stomach, she pounded on the locked door.

"Erik! Let me in right now!"

The only answer was silence.

There was a horrid feeling of helplessness that welled up. Christine had tried so hard, but she understood that Erik needed her for nothing. He could provide for himself, cook and clean better than she, and he had lived without her for many years. She was simply something to keep him occupied, distracted from dwelling in his mad state.

"_Erik_! Let me in – I will run away, I swear I will! You must let me in!"

A slight shifting was heard, and Christine saw the doorknob twist slowly. His bright yellow eyes peered at her from the crack in the door.

"You should go to bed, Christine."

"Of course I can't."

He sighed, a strange flash passing through his eyes, and he replied slowly, "Do you become ill...at the sight of blood? I am quite certain that you do."

"Open the door," Christine commanded, though her voice was laced with fear.

To her relief and surprise, he obeyed, and she entered the room only to wish that she hadn't.

His coat and waistcoat were deposited on the floor, and Christine noticed, with a sickening drop in her stomach, that they were fairly drenched with a dark, sticky liquid. She looked fearfully at Erik, who stood quietly. The sleeve of his right arm was stained with red, and his entire shoulder was positively soaked. Christine raised a shaking hand to her mouth.

"Erik – how...?"

"No time for questions now," he muttered. His voice was very soft, and he walked with a fearful sway.

"Christine," he breathed. His legs shook, and he fell to his knees by the bowl of lukewarm water, a large pile of white, clean wraps, a large, lumpy bag, and a bottle half full of an unknown liquid. "I have lost...considerable blood. I will not be...angry if you allow me to...bleed to death."

"Tell me what I can do," Christine begged. "Please, tell me."

"In the bag," he said, looking at his stained shoulder with interest, "there...is a needle in the bag...and some...medical thread...."

Her face, which was considerably pale, grew whiter when she realized what he was asking. It was nearly impossible for her to open the bag; her hands were shaking so dreadfully.

"I cannot reach...my shoulder...," Erik explained. "You must stem the flow...of the blood."

Christine was close to objecting, but, to her surprise, she found herself picking up the white rags, dipping them briefly in the water, and coming to kneel behind Erik, whose narrow chest was raggedly expanding and then slowly collapsing. When she slowly peeled the wet shirt off his shoulder, she was quite close to gagging. The wound was bright red, open, and blood was slowly, steadily draining from his body. A shudder ripped through his back when she cautiously placed the cloth on his skin. It was soon stained with his blood, and she worked quietly, quickly, wiping away the crimson liquid that had stained the skin around the wound.

No matter how she had prepared herself, the sight of his disgustingly bony, white shoulder was something that she was not expecting. The white only made the blood seem so vivid, so red, and it had blemished her hands, her wrists, her dress....She saw, when she bent over, that a lock of her hair had become streaked with blood when she had pushed it behind her ear.

"Take...the needle," Erik mumbled, slouching forward. "You can sew...yes?"

Christine emitted a pathetic squeak.

"Pour...the medicine on it first....The bottle."

As Christine stepped over to retrieve it, she looked at Erik. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open, and his body swayed slowly. The tears began to spill, and Christine clumsily opened the bottle, dumping a generous amount onto the open wound. A gruesome hissing sound filled the air, and Erik moaned before passing out completely. The supplies were slippery in her hands, a result of all the blood that tainted her fingers, and she wiped them on her dress before threading the needle, taking a deep breath, and plunging it into his skin.

The process was sickening, nauseating, and Christine wished that she would faint, too. However, stitch by stitch she progressed, and she worked quickly. His protruding bones jarred her hands, his dry skin a reminder of what Erik was, and she fought back the bile and tears.

Finally, an eternity later, she finished the last stitch, and she jerked away from him, succumbing to her sobs. Erik's body, an unconscious heap on the floor, moved ever so slightly with his slow breaths.

_Mad_, _mad_, _mad_, _mad_, _mad_, her mind was chanting, and she gripped her hair tightly, the lingering blood clinging to her hair, her skin, her clothes. Without regard for Erik, uncaring of the fact that he was in the room, she stripped off her outer layers, shedding herself of the blood and madness that made it reek so. She left quickly to wrap herself in a nightgown and returned, mechanically cleaning up the strewn mess, though her body was still heaving with cries.

It was very cold; the fire downstairs had burnt out, and she hadn't the will to relight it. Without knowing exactly why, and too tired to think on it, she dragged the heavy blanket and pillows off the bed and took it to Erik, lying down beside him. As she looked into his masked face, she could convince herself that he was sleeping, and, pulling the blanket around them both, she fell into heavy, exhausted sleep.


	27. Chapter 27

It was nearly impossible for her to open her eyes the first time. Groggily, she allowed them to flutter momentarily before sinking deeper into her pillow and going back into her beautiful, blissful dreamland. There was no blood _there_, no mad husband, no prison....It was a wonderful sensation.

When it ended some hours later, Christine sighed irritably. The floor was hard against her body, and when she moved, her entire frame protested loudly. Slowly, her blue eyes revealed themselves to the room, and she saw, with surprise, that Erik was still there, his large back to her, breathing rhythmically. With no effort to stop herself, she pulled back the shoulder of his shirt and looked at the grotesque mar on his shoulder-blade. An angry red surrounded the black, sickly stitches, and Christine felt ill. When her fingers touched his back, some kind of strange sensation fell upon her stomach. It was not disgust or loathing, but it was new, strange, and foreign, and she wasn't sure if she thought it pleasant or not.

"You did a fairly good job," his voice suddenly said, and her hand snapped back to her chest; she had thought him to still be asleep. Why, then, was he there?

"Thank you," was the only thing she could think of to say.

For a very long time, neither of them spoke nor moved. Christine wondered if he had drifted back off to sleep, as she was sorely tempted to do so. Erik's bony hand clawed his shirt back over his shoulder slowly.

"Why didn't you let me die?" came the next morbid remark.

The young woman frowned. "How could I ever do that? Erik, you...you are all I have." An unseen blush inched onto her cheeks, and she wished for the chance to take the statement back. It was true, however much she wished it not. She didn't know what would have would happen if Erik left her in some way; there was nowhere for her to go.

"What happened?" she finally asked, her heartbeat thudding a bit harder.

He was silent.

"Erik? What – ?"

"Something you should not concern yourself over, my dear," he interrupted, his voice slightly curt. "Erik was a fool and deserved what he received."

Christine looked away from his shoulder and stared at her hand that rested on the pillow. He would not tell her...now. It was very cold, and she couldn't bear to leave the warm blanket. She had curled into some sort of awkwardly comfortable position on the hard floor. To stay in bed so late in the morning was surprisingly relaxing.

"I will not be leaving for the next few days," Erik said quietly, his tone apologetic. She looked at his back and waited. "You should make yourself breakfast."

She sighed in agreement and reluctantly sat up, embracing the chill. It was incredibly strange to stand in her nightgown and have Erik's burning eyes on her. Without sparing him a glance, she lightly padded from the room, each step bringing a burst of cold into her foot.

As she was beginning to knead the dough for the day's loaf of bread (each effort produced better results), she heard shuffling behind her and turned around to see Erik leaning against the doorjamb, freshly dressed and watching her with peculiar interest. His expression softened to see the flour in her hands and some that had found its way onto her neck. She had obviously donned her heaviest dress, for the winter was irritating her.

"The cold spell will soon snap," he promised. "And you shall have a pretty little garden, and sunshine, and flowers, and everything you wished for."

To his surprise, she smiled at him. "Thank you," Christine said softly, the sheer truth in her voice nearly breaking him.

"You...you may go out this afternoon, if you wish it," he managed to say.

She thanked him again and went back to her dough. Erik remained in the doorway, watching. Her arms moved with a rhythmic, loose motion, and he could see her shoulder-blades moving, working, through the back of her dress. Every so often, she would press into the dough hard, and her hips would sway in a most dreadful manner. Despite the temperature, Erik found himself growing intolerably warm. Kneading bread dough was never intended to be attractive, yet he could not tear his eyes away from her, her hips, the very way she moved.

His breath picked up and, with an unheard angry growl, he tore himself away from the room. Christine, puzzled although not offended, paused for a moment before continuing.

Some time later, she wandered into the front room, her hands and neck clean of flour, and she saw Erik sitting stiffly on the couch, calmly watching the hot orange fire before him.

"It is strange to have you home," she commented, coming to sit next to him. Erik glanced sideways at her.

"Does it bother you?"

"No, not at all! I am glad for the company."

The two were silent for a moment, and Erik unconsciously brought his hand to rest on his injured shoulder. Blood needed to be pumped back into his body before he made another trip to Paris.

"Erik is sorry to leave his little wife alone all day," he said mournfully.

Somehow, this odd comment sparked up a conversation. Christine considered the day her favorite since they had moved into the house. Neither of them left the couch and, somehow, during the course of the day, Christine had somehow snuggled up against his side. She was examining his large hands, turning them between her own small ones, running her fingers over the veins that protruded from the back of his bony, white hand. Erik felt a dizzying, magnificent thrill each time. They talked quietly of many things; he told her many stories, and she asked many questions. Christine forgot entirely about the rising bread dough, and Erik forgot about his list of things he needed to accomplish before the day's end.

When night fell, it wasn't long before Christine dropped into a peaceful slumber, clutching his shirt and sighing contentedly. Erik considered himself the happiest and most blessed of men as he picked her up (with much difficulty, but somehow he managed to lean her weight against his good shoulder) and carried her to her – _their _– bed.

Gratefully, he deposited her on the bed with a muffled groan, feeling his shoulder throb, tormented. She curled into her customary position, though her grip had not faltered on his shirt. Erik quickly decided that he had endured too much during the course of twelve hours _not _to reward himself, and he slipped in beside her. Each second on the couch had been an excruciating, delightful torture, an exquisite temptation, and he sighed into her soft, sweet-smelling hair.

His beautiful wife rolled over and nestled against him, putting her head on his chest, which stopped its continuous rise and fall. Erik looked down and simply stared at her for a very, very long time. In that strange moment, he truly felt like a normal husband.

----

Christine fought down the confusion whenever she climbed into bed each night. How she could sleep each night next to a corpse was something she did not wish to think about. It was no longer unusual for her to sleep right next to him, and, unconsciously, each night she would nestle next to him, sometimes an arm thrown across his chest, sometimes her head resting on his thin shoulder.

Each night, Erik imagined that it would become easier, but it did not. His stomach would twist and turn, making him ill, and chills ran through his body. The sudden onslaught of physical touch was strange, unnatural after living so long without it.

One night, she was being quite a nuisance in her sleep. It was obviously a restless night for her. Erik swallowed harshly, staring fixedly out of the window into the clear, cold night. Why could he not simply be content with his wife sleeping by his side each night? Why did he always want _more_?

_It is because you are a man_, his inner voice whispered snidely. Yes; Erik was a member of that horrid sex in nearly every aspect. Christine could be perfectly content with this every night until the day she died; women did not care if they retained their girlish innocence.

She turned fretfully against him, burying her face into his neck and sighing. Her leg came up, running along his and, when he felt his hand accidentally brush against the bare skin of her exposed knee, he gasped and immediately sat up, hot shudders wracking his entire skeletal frame. Christine opened her eyes tiredly.

"Erik?"

He slid out of the bed so quickly that she hadn't had time to see. Staring, his chest heaving, Erik watched her fight away the confusion that accompanies waking from sleep.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice soft.

"I...must leave," he muttered, turning a blind eye to the way her long hair was tousled delightfully.

"Will you be coming back?"

_Confound _her blasted innocence! "No. I cannot come back again tonight, Christine. I will sleep in another room."

"What?" An annoyed cry lingered in her tone, and she sat up. "What? Why not?"

A hiss escaped him, and his hands clenched tightly. There was no answer that would please her so, instead of trying, he turned around and headed for the door.

"Wait! Where are you going?" He heard the blankets rustle and felt her presence directly behind him. "Why...why are you doing this?"

Now positively enraged, he spun around and searched her innocent, earnest face. "A corpse lies in bed with you every night! A corpse, Christine, who is also a man...." She still looked into his mask beseechingly, and he reached for her sharply before pulling back at the expression of surprise and slight fear that crossed her features. He left, slamming the door shut loudly.

Christine stood silently, staring blankly at the door. An unfamiliar sensation was welling up in her stomach. "_A corpse_..._who is also a man_...." For many, many minutes she watched the wood of the door.

She had lived long enough at the Opera House to know that men were strange.

"They can't help themselves," the older girls said to her, nodding knowingly at each other. "There's something in them."

And Erik, whatever he may be, was still a man.

He was gone the next morning. Tired from the sleep with which she had not been blessed, she drearily attended to her chores and napped on the sofa, finding her bed now to be ominous and destructive. It was very late in the day when he finally returned, and he did not talk to her but instead locked himself away upstairs. This lasted for two days, and Christine only saw him when he entered the door and went upstairs. Any attempt at a conversation was useless. She could not sleep; the bed was so large and cold.

On the third night, she quietly walked down the hall and knocked on the locked door.

"Erik? Erik, please....You cannot hide yourself. I must speak with you. Please, Erik, unlock the door." She knocked again, and the door cracked open, much like it did that frightening night when the blood was everywhere.

"You should go to bed," he muttered, dropping his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she offered earnestly, tempted to cry. "I am a silly girl, Erik, and you are smarter than I. You must let me know when I do something wrong. _Please_. Come back to bed. I cannot sleep without you."

He stared at her incredulously. "_You _are in the wrong? You are not cursed with these...these primal feelings! How could your innocent mind comprehend just _what _you suggest when you touch me? It is unbearable, Christine. I can no longer torture myself and pretend that I am strong enough to resist."

"I cannot sleep without you," she finally confessed once again. "Please, Erik."

For a moment, he looked somewhat thoughtful. How strange it was to have Christine actually begging _him _to sleep in the same bed, when not long ago it was he that was begging.

"You need your sleep," he admitted. "I will not have you falling ill."

"Yes," she agreed readily. "You must be there."

Erik did not want to deny his wife – partly because she wished it and partly because _he _wished was much the same as it had been during their first nights in the same bed. Christine fell asleep on the opposite side of the large bed while Erik laid on the other, for he hardly ever slept. However, as the night progressed, Erik found Christine right next to him, and he pushed her away uncomfortably. She woke up, muttered a quiet, "Sorry," and quickly dropped back into sleep.

He watched her, the moonlight illuminating her features. He watched her roll over. He watched her sigh in her sleep. He watched her reach for him, her small hand clasping him, clutching at him like a childhood doll. He quietly wrestled from her grasp.

"Christine," he choked, pushing her hands away. "Erik cannot do this."

And, for the first time, Erik prayed for strength.


	28. Chapter 28

Erik had a very hard time fathoming the fact that he had been married one year. The buds had just begun when he took Christine on the fateful carriage ride, and, outside the window, he could see the trees begin to live. In his mind, only yesterday had she triumphed as Marguerite, and not quite an hour ago she was in his house, with the guests in his torture chamber, and he was laughing, and she was crying. Time was blustering on without him, and, quite suddenly, he felt incredibly old.

Dear Christine could not wait until the mud had cleared from her garden. She was outside, no doubt dirt all over, happily planting that which Erik had brought for her. The big garden was reserved for her flowers; she had decided that long ago. He brought enough food home each day that a large vegetable garden was a luxury she did not want. She would not listen to him, either, when he warned her that a frost would kill everything, and the chance of a frost was still high. With a shrug and a bell-like laugh, she was out of the door, the wind picking up her hair and skirts.

When she came back inside, Erik was walking around and around his room upstairs, muttering to himself. He stopped, looked around, and then began again. Christine watched as he pushed the furniture against the wall and stood, his eyes sweeping the empty space. An angry, irritated sigh suddenly came from him, and he left the room. She followed, silent as he stood in the center of the large room downstairs.

"What is it?" she finally ventured.

A rapid train of thought ran through his mind, and he finished his last two words, "...quite small," out loud, confusing Christine further.

"Excuse me?"

The silence remained for another minute, and his head tilted slightly as he began slowly, "Christine, I...It is hard for me without my music, so...I purchased a fine piano." His eyes looked into hers pleadingly, as if he had done something terrible.

"That's wonderful!" To hear his fingers dance across ivory keys was something she missed.

"Yes," came his beautiful voice. "Yes...It is too large, however, to fit in my room upstairs."

"Put it in here."

He looked at her, aghast. "No, Christine, I would not take away your room."

"Yes," she insisted firmly. "You will put it in here. Please have it soon, Erik."

As he stared at her, she began to feel acutely uncomfortable and blushed slightly under his gaze.

"My little songbird has changed in more ways than one," he finally said, and this only hardened her blush.

Two days passed, and Christine woke one morning to the most glorious sounds. Haphazardly, she threw on the first dress that her hand touched and hurried downstairs. A magnificent, gleaming, vast piano dominated the room, and Erik, who was looking more relaxed and at home than he had ever been in his house, allowed his longing fingers to indulge their desire. For hours and hours Christine sat on the couch, drinking of his music as deeply as her mind was able. Having been so long separated from the full beauty of it, this was an overload, and she felt utterly powerless in his majestic presence.

Quite suddenly, the music stopped, and he turned to her, a gleam of true and untainted happiness in his eyes. Unfamiliar and new, it was a strange sight, but an appealing one.

"Come here," he commanded.

Her voice was fresh and pure, well-rested, and she felt as if her very being was carried into the heavens by the music. Erik was there, too, and they could not stop themselves, could not let the music leave them, could not bear to starve their souls of the ambrosia that came from the keys.

Tears came from her eyes, but she did not notice them, and they ran over her smiling lips, dripping onto his broad shoulders. With each note, another drop of happiness would escape from her eyes, and, in pure ecstasy, she twisted her fingers into the shoulders of Erik's coat, subduing those feelings that made her want to swoon away. Laws were defied in those hours, and the two were happy to break them.

As the last angelic notes died away, Christine discovered how weak her body was, and she fell heavily onto the couch. The heart within her chest was beating rapidly, pounding the blood through her, and yet her soul was alive, stronger than before. She felt faintly dizzy at the strong differences. Her legs were feeble, and her stomach gnawed impatiently.

Erik remained on the bench, running his long fingers over the keys, caressing them with the utmost tenderness and care. For many minutes, no words were spoken; there were none to say. Shaking, Christine rose to her feet. She felt utterly exhausted and, wearily, began to climb the stairs.

Something cold touched her back as she ascended. A glance told her it was Erik's large hand, and he graciously assisted her to the bedroom.

"I am sorry to make you ill," was his soft mutter.

"Of course you didn't," she argued. "I am not ill." Yet she lay down tiredly, sighing.

"Do you need something sweet?"

_Yes_, her mind whispered. "No, thank you."

His golden eyes looked into hers for a moment. "I will be back." And, shortly, he was, bearing a sugary pastry that she accepted without comment. Seeing that she was situated, he bade her a good night and went to the door.

"Wait. Will you – be back?" Christine fought down the heat in her neck and cheeks.

He did not face her. "If you wish."

"Yes," was her quiet, almost unheard whisper.

That night, she tried not to feel too grateful when Erik's arms slipped around her waist.

* * *

She worked farther and farther along in her garden each day until it eventually ended, yet she continued to plant flowers to the edge of the property. Erik left for the city in the mornings again, though his absences were not as long. One morning she was digging around in the dirt and fondly placed a little tulip in the hole, humming and smiling at the fact that Erik had left her another pretty dress as a surprise. Perhaps she would wear it when he returned...

"_Guten Morgen_," came a voice. Christine jumped sharply before turning around. A little boy, no older than ten, was staring at her, his brown eyes curious. She glanced back at the house nervously; perhaps Erik would be angry if she spoke to a little boy, so she continued to pat down the dirt around the tulip stem. The boy came closer.

"_Wie __hei__ßen __Sie_?" the child continued, crouching down to look at her. Christine finished with her tulip, brushed the dirt from her hands, and started on another hole. The boy continued to pester her for several minutes, and Christine wondered why he didn't grow weary from her lack of response. Suddenly, a shout was heard from behind the boy, and he turned to see a woman hurrying after him. She had a child on her hip and another one trailing behind her.

"Niklas!" the woman gasped, stopping next to the boy and glaring at him. Her eyes glanced down to Christine, who was quite nervous. "_Wer __ist __sie_?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders and began to pick the flowers that Christine had just placed in their little holes.

"_Ah_! _Halt_, _halt_!" the mother cried, wrenching her son away. "Excuse my child," the woman suddenly said to Christine with a lovely smile. "He wanders off too many times."

The little girl behind the woman was tugging on her mother's skirts, her petite face scrunched up with tears, and she whimpered, "_Mutti_! _Mutti_! _Mutti_! _Mutti_!"

"Ah! _Nach hause gehen, Sophie!_" Here the little girl burst into tears and ran the opposite direction. The woman simply hitched the little boy on her hip higher and smiled again at Christine.

"I am Marta," she offered. "We are neighbors, I suppose, though we have never seen anyone inside or out of your house."

Christine stood slowly, clutching her small spade protectively. The woman was older than Christine. She had a motherly face with a permanent crease between her dark brows and a full, red mouth. Her hair, long and dark, was swept up haphazardly which brought out her strict jaw and straight nose. Christine, being isolated from all company except Erik's, made her forget her manners momentarily, but a forced smile finally stretched her lips.

"C – Christine," the young soprano managed to say. "I – we didn't get out much during the winter."

Marta nodded and then snapped at Niklas, who was busily digging a hole behind his mother's foot in obvious hopes that she would step in it. The little boy, now sullen, left the small group and ambled off to the large tree that was settled nearby. Christine swallowed anxiously. The woman was very friendly, yet, as a result of Christine's confinement, the presence of another woman made her anxious; nothing to speak about came to mind.

"I am sorry for my children," the mother said, her shapely lips curved into an apologetic smile. "I can hardly keep track of one, let alone five. My husband is always working all day, so I must watch them somehow. Do you have any?"

"No!" Christine gasped, chilled at the thought. Marta's expression made her blush. "I – I apologize. We are...newlyweds."

"It is wonderful, isn't it?" Marta said gaily. "I remember when we had the house to ourselves."

As Christine blundered through some inexpert and noncommittal answer, Marta grew impatient with the baby squealing on her hip, and she set him down, where he drooled and buried his saliva-covered hands into the dirt.

"We must speak properly," Marta insisted. "When – ?"

A faint crash echoed around them, and Christine paled to realize that it came from her house. Erik was home...

"I must go," she said, dropping her spade and then cutting her finger in her haste to pick it up again. "Thank you – goodbye."

Her golden curls bounced wildly as she ran back to the house, gathering her skirts in her hands and pulling them up to her knees. She wanted to look behind her but focused her sights on the back door.

Erik was not very pleased. He had entered to find the house quite empty. There was no Christine waiting for him with a smile on her sweet lips and a meal ready. Although he never ate it, he still enjoyed the normalcy of having a wife who cooked for him. He had looked in every single room, and a sweeping glance of the backyard told him that she had run away. An angry snarl promptly erupted from his belly, an animalistic growl, and he knocked over the closest thing: the tall bookshelf. She could not have gotten far...He rode to Paris often enough to know the roads better than God Himself.

As he threw open the back door, an infuriating and relieving sight met his eyes: Christine stood breathless, her eyes wide and her hands filthy with blood and dirt.

"Where were you?" he asked, his voice quiet.

She swallowed. "I was working in the garden, as usual, Erik. I simply lost track of time."

A distinct unfairness washed over her; the injustice of Erik's acute senses was not fair. He could always tell when she was lying.

"Wash your hands," he told her, and she obliged quickly.

"I'm sorry," she offered. "I cut my finger on the spade. It was an accident. Time didn't seem to matter outside."

Erik sighed, looking quite ruffled. "Why must you always lie to me? It is always very tedious to listen to the deceptions. They do not become your pretty mouth."

All the mud was washed from her hands, and she concentrated on getting rid of the faint red stain that blemished her finger. "I met our neighbors," she finally admitted, and she flinched, thinking that he was going to hurt her.

"What?"

"Our neighbors – the family who lives in the house next to ours."

"Yes, yes," Erik said impatiently, waving his hand. "I understand that. You...you went _over _there? After I specifically – "

"No!" She turned around and approached him beseechingly. "No, I didn't. I was outside, and the little boy saw me. His mother came to find him, and she tried to talk to me – I only told her my name, Erik, I promise...I am not lying."

"Of course," he agreed after a silent minute of scrutiny. His cold hand grasped hers, and he pulled her to the front room, saying, "You must sing for me, Christine. Monsigny calls to you."

As he sat on the bench, Christine lightly touched the spot where she knew the repulsive scar was hidden; Erik jumped under her fingers and pulled away uneasily.

"Erik, will you tell me what happened to your shoulder?"

"Quiet, dear. Listen for your cue."

"You will always say that whenever I ask you and you will never tell me."

"Why should I?"

"Because I am your wife."

Suddenly, he leapt up, knocking the bench over. "Do _not_ play that card with me, woman!" he snarled. "How should you react when I tell you? Hmm? You will scream, cry, lock yourself away in a room, leave Erik forever! You are my wife, eh? Then it lends itself to reason that I should tell you all!" He seized her shoulders. "Shall I tell you of the poisons in Mongolia? Perhaps you wish to know of the woman in Nepal, who sold her daughter to feed her other children for a mere week. Or do you want to hear of my armies, Christine, and how I defeated a king? Maybe I shall tell you of _her_, if you really wish to know. What about my only friend who died by my hand? Perhaps, _wife_, I shall give you detailed description of the tortures in Mazanderan. Would you like that? Which do you crave to hear first?"

Christine had gradually lost the support in her legs, and she slumped in his arms, unwilling to dwell on anything he had said. Erik looked at her steadily, his eyes burning, and she closed hers, unable to bear his gaze. And, as much as she wished to have this be about her, it was not. Erik gathered her in his arms and began to sob, fervently clutching at her. With her breath coming in shallow bursts, she gathered her courage and allowed him to lean upon her, his thin body overcome with grief.

"I did nothing," he wept. "But I did everything – it was all my fault, Christine...All my fault...but – now you're here, my beautiful, breathing wife." His sobs doubled. "Never, never leave me, Christine. Erik could not breathe, could not think, could not live without you. Erik loves you so much, and he will be happy with that. Just never leave me."

She was crying with him, feeling the tears run over her cheeks and to her chin. The tears were for his pain, for the fact that she would never understand, never come close to even comprehending his feelings and thoughts, for the harsh reality being that he had chosen someone who was too afraid, too weak to be his companion.

His eyes still wet, he looked up at her and used his long thumb to wipe away her tears. "Don't cry," he whispered. "Erik is not worth your tears, and he cannot bear to see you in pain."

Trembling, she leaned up and gently removed his mask, ignoring the flinch that shot through him as she pressed her lips against his cold forehead. His hand was waiting for hers, and she took it, leading him upstairs. Without bothering to change and uncaring of the fact that it was still late afternoon, they curled up in the welcoming bed. She huddled against him, putting a hand on his chest and feeling his heart pound steadily. The two were silent, drifting off into sleep. As Erik shifted in order to embrace her, she mumbled,

"I want you to be happy."

Allowing his eyes to close, he inhaled her scent, felt her comforting weight, caught one last glimpse of her angelic face, and replied, "I am."


	29. Chapter 29

A light, playful breeze swept across the country, dancing with the clouds, and Christine was happy to let it play with her hair. The wind carried the shrieking laughter of the children that ran in circles around the large blanket on which the two women sat. Marta's conversation was repeatedly broken off by her shouts at her children, who all had a large capacity for causing trouble from the slightest of things.

It was all too much of a magnificent dream for the young soprano. She knew that, eventually, something would ruin her small, budding friendship. Erik never spoke to her about her frequent visits to their neighbor. It was a silent disagreement between the two, but she was very careful never to give too much information. Her story was simple: she and her husband had met in Paris and moved out here to escape from the heat and noise of the city. Her poor husband, she continued, worked all day and hardly ever had a holiday. No, she did not travel, and her husband worked in a law firm.

The two women met mostly out of the house; Christine went once over to Marta's large and spacious house, but she felt very uncomfortable and wicked; Erik would have no doubt done more than frowned if he learned of this. To her relief, Marta must have sensed her caution, for now whenever they met, her children dragged a thick blanket behind them to spread out onto the tall grass.

As they spoke, a shrill scream pierced the air, and a little girl waddled quickly toward her mother, her face scrunched up into hot tears. Marta took the child into her arms humorously, saying soothingly, "_Dort __bist __du_, _Ilia_."

The youngest girl, who followed her sister around religiously, had managed to finally make her way to the blanket, and she quickly snuggled into Christine's lap. The latter, having never been around such small children, nervously allowed the young child to position herself accordingly and sit patiently, babbling in her baby talk happily. Marta's youngest, a little boy no older than two, had quickly fallen asleep under the comforting blanket of the warm sun.

"Ilia's brothers are so cruel to her," Marta said sympathetically, smiling at her daughter. The other little boy was busily digging a large hole in hopes to find bugs with which to frighten his sisters.

Christine, who decided that it was best simply to let the girl in her lap do whatever she pleased, remarked, "Ilia does not sound like your other children's names."

A laugh came from the mother, one which Christine was growing to love, and Marta straightened the little frock that her daughter was wearing. "Richmond – my husband – once had the pleasure of seeing Mozart's _Idomeneo_. Have you heard of it – yes? He was convinced from that day onward that his first daughter's name would be Iliana."

The young girl in question had now received appropriate attention, and she wriggled out of her mother's protective grasp in order to skip to her brothers. Christine allowed the child in her lap to follow accordingly, and she smiled as the girl tripped over the blanket but quickly pushed herself back up once again. Marta's smile was one of such genuine love and happiness that Christine suddenly felt a hot spike of wicked jealousy stab at her heart.

"Do you plan to have children?" Marta suddenly asked, and then she gasped. "Ah! How terribly wicked of me! I am very sorry; I do not think before I speak."

Christine's cheeks had flushed hotly, and she stammered confusedly, but her friend silenced her.

"Please, you should not have to answer that. My mouth is quite uncontrollable sometimes."

Not long after, Christine returned to her house. For the rest of the afternoon, she reflected silently. Was she ever to bear children? The adoration and joy in Marta's face was enough to make her want children of her own, but Christine knew so little about them, and to carry Erik's children...A shudder passed through her as she washed the potatoes.

He came home to find her on the couch, staring at a book, and he bade her a good afternoon, to which she replied mechanically. Several silent minutes later, as Erik was leafing through numerous scores of music, he looked at her and asked,

"Why so quiet, little bird?" Ever since his outburst a few days earlier, they had enjoyed some strange sort of warm bond. They had never shared a more relaxed few days, and both spouses opened a bit more each time they spoke.

"I am simply thinking," she said, staring at the floor.

"Of?"

Her mouth puckered in a strange, sweet little way, and her fair brows knitted faintly. "Many things, all trivial."

Late that night, Christine stared out into the endless black, twinkling sky, ensconced under the warm blankets.

"Erik?" she finally asked, her voice soft. He shifted behind her slightly, and she heard him sigh gently.

"Yes?"

"What were your parents like?"

There was a moment of deep silence, and Christine suddenly worried that she had stepped over onto a delicate, personal memory, one that he did not wish to tell her, a horrible, disgusting one. But Erik was still relaxed (in his own, peculiar way), and she could not sense an anger building up.

"My mother was a dark, handsome woman, I remember. Her eyes were large, and her black hair was always shining." He paused momentarily. "I cannot remember my father very well; his hands were big, and he was tall."

"As tall as you?"

To both of their surprise, he gave a breath of silent laughter. "No, Christine, I do not believe so." Both grew quiet again, and Erik's long fingers gently brushed over her arm. "They did not love Erik, especially his mother. No – do not be sorry, darling. It was something that could not be helped. No doubt both had a very beautiful child in mind."

Christine felt her heart skip a few beats. In the slightest, impossible possibility that she _did _ever bear a child, could she love it if the baby inherited everything from Erik and nothing from her? Could she stand the sight of a child that passed through her to be so incredibly hideous that he would be given a mask? She would turn into Erik's very mother: spiteful, angry, and Erik's poor child would grow to be just as mad and strange as his father. And if she happened to bear a _girl_...The thought was too painful.

That strange sensation that she was beginning to feel more and more often ran through her blood as Erik's grip tightened ever so slightly.

"You should sleep," said he. "I am not going to town tomorrow; your voice needs work, and you shall need your strength."

The proposition cheered her slightly, and she fell asleep with _Idomeneo _playing in her head.

* * *

Each day found Christine happier than the last. The fresh air had given her back her health graciously, and she grew more and more accustomed to her dear neighbor's conversation, which revived her interest in the life that had been crushed out of her while living under the Opera House. However, the biggest contribution to her returned joy was Marta's children. It was strange to Christine, but she found herself growing so fond of them, and they of her, that they began to call her _Tante__ Christine_. Marta's baby, a remarkably agile little boy christened Mathis, had an especial fondness for her, though maybe it was only because Christine, unsure of what else to do, succumbed to his every desire. Only the eldest child, Bernhard, seemed to dislike Christine. A scowl would appear on his smooth, white face whenever she played with his siblings, and barely a civil word was spoken to Christine whenever he talked to her. Many times, Marta had to reprimand him sharply and send him away.

Erik noticed his wife's increasing joy, and it did nothing to dampen his. On the contrary, each time he heard her laugh, which was becoming something regular, he felt as if he could simply stare at her and listen until the skies collapsed upon them. The pale, drawn look had disappeared from her face, and the dark circles that encompassed her eyes vanished. It was frightening now to think of how crushed and dead she had been under the Opera House, wandering from room to room, crying constantly and withering away in front of him. Now, each second brought greater and unknown ecstasy into his cold heart. The small, strange couple thrived under the hot sun, and Erik brought her home expensive gifts on a nightly basis. The only thing she worried about was the cost of all of the sumptuous gifts, and she had never given him anything willingly in her entire life. An opportunity, however, soon presented itself.

The youngest girl, a wide-eyed pixie with a fondness for Christine's flowers, was shrieking delightedly as _Tante _Christine softly sang a delightful song in the girl's native tongue. Christine inwardly thanked Erik for his insistence on memorization, and Mozart came easily from her throat.

"_Welche Freude wird das sein  
__Wenn die Götter uns bedenken_,  
_Unsrer Liebe Kinder__ schenken_.  
_Unsrer Liebe Kinder __schenken_."

"Christine," Marta suddenly said, catching the young woman's attention. "You no doubt know music very well, and your voice is...well, I cannot find a word to describe it. You play the piano, do you not?"

Flattered slightly, Christine replied, "A little. Eri – my husband is far better."

"Ah. Sometimes, when we are outside, I hear such music coming from your house, and it is so beautiful that I cry. I have never thought of mentioning it until now, but...I have a favor to ask."

The little girl, bored now that _Tante_ Christine was no longer paying her attention, scampered off to find her sister.

"Of course," Christine assured hurriedly. "Anything."

"Well...I have always wanted Bernhard to be well-educated, as he is such a wickedly sharp boy, but...he knows nothing of music." Marta looked at her imploringly. "I know little of it, and what I do know, I cannot think of where to begin. Is there any possible way...? Richmond would gladly pay you, of course."

Christine was silent for a few moments. Bernhard disliked her, but, with the money, no doubt _something_ could be procured for Erik, who lavished her so exceedingly. She now had more evening dresses than day dresses, which was quite ridiculous. And she could teach Bernhard in the mornings, when Erik was gone. He could be surprised.

"Of course," she conceded, and Marta thanked her warmly. Bernhard, who had overheard, frowned angrily and flung a rock as far as he was able. When Erik presented her with a new, heavy bracelet that evening, she took it graciously, and his heart disappeared momentarily when he saw it glittering on her wrist the next day, and it remained there permanently.


	30. Chapter 30

**Thank you for the reviews!**

* * *

Christine, for once, woke with Erik. Still lying in bed, she quietly watched him rise and bend over to push his feet into the awaiting shoes. His shoulder-blades pressed against the back of his shirt.

"Does your scar hurt you?" she asked.

He did not pause, having known that she was awake, and replied, "My wife did such a wonderful job; I do not even notice it any more."

A soft smile crept onto her lips. "You flatter me. It was sloppy and hurried. I was frightened."

An apology was offered immediately, but she ignored it and sighed contentedly, clutching her blanket and feeling sorely tempted to sleep again. The sun was peeking into the quiet bedroom, and Christine blinked against the light.

"Shall I make you breakfast?" Erik asked politely.

"No," was her immediate reply; a soft chill fled through her stomach. Bernhard was coming for his first lesson today, and Erik needed to be out of the house. He seemed slightly offended but recovered quickly before rubbing his ear and bidding her a solemn farewell. When she heard the back door close, she crawled out of bed and quickly readied herself, going through the first lessons that Erik had taught her. They had been so wonderful and frightening, and she smiled sadly at her girlish naivety.

_Really_, _Christine_, she scolded herself, pinning her hair back. _An Angel from your father_!

The girl had changed. She examined herself in the mirror. A young woman stood in the terrified child's place. Christine had shed her timidity and fright, and she did not regret it. The gold ring shone on her left hand, and she twirled it, wondering if Erik would be happy when she gave him...whatever she was going to give him. What was she to give to someone such as Erik?

A resolute knock echoed around the house, and she hurried downstairs, trying not to fluster herself. The young boy stood on the other side. Well, he was more of a young man than a boy. As Christine warmly invited him inside, she politely asked,

"How old are you, Bernhard?"

The scowl, which seemed permanently etched onto his face, deepened slightly as he mumbled, "Fifteen."

She would not allow his crossness to put her into a mood, so she instead smiled again and led him to the large piano. A certain air of reverence was constantly about it, and she resisted shuddering as a vision ran through her mind of Erik's long, spider-like hands trailing up and down the keys.

"There is a large gap between you and your younger brother," was her next conversational, if not inquisitive, remark.

He stood stiffly by the piano, looking at it with wary curiosity before saying coldly, "Marta is not my mother. My mother died giving birth to me, and my father remarried when I was seven."

Unsure of what to say, she gave a soft, "I'm sorry," and gestured to the piano. It was strange, teaching him. Christine was not as old as she would have wished in this particular situation, nor was she as tall. The hour passed slowly; he was sharp but reluctant, and Christine realized just how very difficult it was to teach such a broad, abstract subject as music to someone. Her respect and admiration for Erik grew as the lesson dragged on for a painful sixty minutes.

By the end, both student and teacher were flustered. He had just managed to play a sloppy C scale, and Christine said quietly, "We will continue next lesson. Please remember your notes."

Without a farewell, he positively fled from the house, and she sat down heavily onto the couch, staring at the basket of yarn and needles that she hadn't touched in many days. Her breaking the rules always left her with a little thrill of fear that ran up her spine. It was exciting in a deadly way. However, it wasn't as if she was doing this to hurt him; this was to help him, but it was simply a secret. She forced herself to be calm. Erik always knew when she was lying or hiding something from him. If she managed to put the lesson from her mind, there would be no need to conceal anything from him.

By the time he returned, Christine felt very calm, and nothing was amiss. Her dangerous game continued for one week, two...Bernhard came for lessons twice a week, and he was improving through Christine's fumbled teachings. She had put a renewed effort into her studies with Erik, and often she sat up late into the night, reviewing the concepts, theories, and rules of all that was music, going over the various styles that determined the centuries. Erik remarked once how pleased he was with her determination, and she flushed before thanking him and returning to the music she was poring over.

Erik considered their strange, delicate relationship building each day. Every smile added a new layer to their fragile affection, each kind word and respectful glance lifted him to a new level and made him feel so much like a normal man that he didn't know what to do with himself. Christine, who had grown so used to Erik's presence, now felt very comfortable when he lurked silently in the room with her. His glowing eyes reminded her of a warm, comfortable fire instead of the flames of Hell when she looked at them.

_Perhaps I am simply overly-sentimental_, she thought embarrassedly to herself late one night. _Very soon I shall be swooning over his voice_, _like I did when I was first in his presence_.

A strong voice in her head angrily objected reverting back to that horribly, stupid state of mind, and the little voice agreed. If she ever fell victim to Erik's voice, it would be of free will and consciousness, not a drugged, sleeping state that suffocated her.

"Is something bothering you?" he said, his voice soft and silvery, like the moonlight that slipped in through the window. She sighed and hugged the large pillow.

"Erik, do you remember when you first brought me below the Opera House?"

Immediately, he stiffened, ready for angry defense. "Yes," was his cautious reply.

"I was just thinking how much you – I – _we _have changed."

"For the good, no? Erik realizes that he could not touch his wife if she were still that timid, shy Swedish girl with whom he fell in love."

"But you do still love me?" she asked, her voice tainted with a slight panic that she did not understand.

"Yes, Christine. I love you very much." He was silent for a moment. "Do you miss your young man very much?"

It took Christine a few moments to realize about whom he was talking. She sat up and looked at him, her long hair cascading down on either side of her neck. Erik looked so strange, simply lying there and looking up at her with genuine curiosity.

"Is that what this is about?" she asked softly.

He reached up and gently touched her curls, reveling in the warmth that spread across his long fingers, but said nothing.

"I suppose not," she finally said. "I have not thought about him in the longest time."

The moonlight seemed to shine directly behind her, creating an ethereal glow that was only complemented by her pure nightgown. Erik felt his breath leave momentarily.

"You are radiant," he finally said, his voice a reverent hush.

She looked at the way his dark hair shined in the glowing light. His golden eyes, she noticed for the first time, had dark, long lashes that were always hidden by his mask. Somehow, Christine found herself able to honestly respond to his compliment with the same praise. Sadly, she knew that Erik would not take well to this, so she merely lay back down and curled against him.

"You should not worry," she muttered a few minutes later, her voice laced lightly with sleep.

He humored her. "What am I worried about, darling?"

Hugging him closer, she replied softly, "About my leaving. I never want to leave you, Erik."


	31. Chapter 31

There was a change in seasons; summer had just passed its peak, and now everything was green, yet the green was not fresh and well. The days were atrociously hot, and Christine sought sanctuary outside, accompanied by Marta, with whom a close bond was being tied.

As Christine was finishing a thorough cleaning of the main room downstairs, a curious thought crossed her mind that was helped along by her conversation with Erik a few nights previously.

_Raoul is a father now_.

She could envision him with a healthy, pink baby boy on his knee, and Raoul's handsome mouth curled up into a charming smile, the golden hair still as bright as ever, and the baby would be squealing with delighted laughter. Although his fateful letter had promised a heart of stone toward his offspring, Christine doubted it entirely. Her previous fiancé's heart was so warm and welcoming that she knew the sight of his baby would shatter the stone residing in the Vicomte's chest. Christine left her momentary vision at the happy scene. To imagine the mother was not something she would willingly do, and she concentrated on resituating the large, heavy rug instead.

The sun grew high in the sky, and Christine ventured out the back door, inhaling deeply all the scents that the warm summer breeze offered. As her eyes swept across the sea of green and brown, broken only by the line of drying clothes, she was tempted to laugh when she saw Marta coming, looking very excited and with her little boy on her hip. To save the mother the toil of carrying the baby, Christine hurried to meet her neighbor, who looked flushed and was beaming.

Instantly, the boy in Marta's arms began to fuss and he reached for Christine, who took him graciously, allowing him the pleasure of squirming as much as he wished.

"Oh, Christine," Marta whispered happily, her dark eyes sparkling. "I've just come across a most wonderful secret. I shouldn't tell you unless I knew you were my true friend, and so I came at once when I found out. It is for your own good that you know."

By now, Christine had become excited, too, and she stepped closer. "What is it?"

"This morning," Marta began, in the throes that accompany revealing a piece of delicious gossip, "I had Bernhard go to water the few chickens that we have. He was gone for a very long time, so I went out back to see what was occupying him. The poor boy and I have never had much of a relationship; there is too much bitterness in his heart over his father remarrying. He thinks that his father no longer loves his mother. Well, anyway, I went outside to see what was taking so long. He did not know I was outside, and I saw that he had traced your name numerous times in the dirt!"

Christine blinked.

"He fancies you," Marta said, laughing. "When he saw I was outside, he scraped up the name with his foot, and he still thinks I do not know. Oh, Christine, how silly this is! You are not too angry, are you?"

"No. Of course not. Why would I be angry?" Her heart quickened slightly.

"_Ausgezeichnet_! How horrible he is to you! You must forgive him, Christine. He is only a poor boy, and he does not yet know what love is. Promise me that you will be kind to him."

Christine agreed mechanically, though inside she felt quite hot. If Erik found out, he would whisk her away without a word, without a thought, regardless of what she said. The stakes of her game increased dramatically, and she had never wanted to win so badly in her whole life.

Three more lessons dragged by; it was very much the same thing, though Christine knew the reason for his aggravation and pitied him for it. She was very nice, just as she promised Marta, but Bernhard only seemed to sulk more whenever she praised him.

One fateful morning, Christine went downstairs to discover Erik at the piano – the piano on which Bernhard was expected to be in fifteen minutes.

"What are you doing?" she asked stupidly.

He looked at her calmly, his fingers still running up and down, up and down the keys. "Playing my piano. Do you wish to play? Are you hungry?"

"Why aren't you in town?" she continued, her eyes wide.

At this question, the music stopped. "Is there something wrong? Something I should know about?"

"No! No, no." And she continued down the stairs, a swarm of butterflies attacking her stomach. He did not move from the bench for the ten minutes. Christine had placed herself in such a way so she could see out the window without looking too obvious. The gold ring slid roughly over her clammy, hot hands, and she bit her lip worriedly.

His blonde hair glinted in the sunlight as Bernhard suddenly appeared in front of the house, for once a surprising smile on his face.

"Erik!" Christine said, standing abruptly. "I am thirsty. Would you mind fetching me a glass of water?"

The piano music came to a reluctant end, and he looked at her curiously. "Of course, my little songbird."

Praying, wishing, hoping, Christine tiptoed over to the front door while Erik was in the back room, and she opened it before Bernhard could knock. The young boy stood on the other side, looking slightly confused.

"I'm afraid I have to cancel today," she whispered, trying to sound apologetic but failing. "I am ill. Goodbye." And, with that, she closed the door softly before returning to her seat just in time to accept the water Erik had brought her. He wandered back to the piano as Christine clutched the cup in her two trembling hands.

"Who was at the door?" he asked casually, not bothering to look at her. A knot built up in her throat, making it difficult to speak.

"Oh – I thought someone was outside, but there was no one."

"Ah." A song erupted from his fingertips, and he played a minute before stopping.

"Who was at the door?" he inquired a second time.

"Someone asking for directions – to Paris," Christine said. The knot only grew.

Another bout of music followed, and Christine felt the familiar tears prick up, unbidden, in her eyes at how easily he played with her, like a large, sleek cat toying mercilessly with a small, helpless sparrow.

"Who was at the door, Christine?"

She stood and approached him, allowing the tears to fall. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry I lied. I promised Marta I would picnic with her today...And I knew you'd be angry." Erik watched her fall to her knees, looking up at him imploringly. "Please, please don't be upset. I'm sorry! Her little son was at the door, and I sent him away."

It wasn't..._all _a lie, but Erik peered down at her, tilting his head slightly in a way that made Christine shiver and wish she had on more layers; his golden eyes pierced her easily. She made such a scene and sobbed into her hands with such earnest that it alarmed Erik slightly.

"I'm such a wicked, wicked girl!" she wept.

"Curious child!" Erik exclaimed, kneeling next to her. He wiped away her tears with the handkerchief he carried only for her benefit. After an eternity, he pulled back and looked at her in such a way that she turned very red and had a strange chill settle near the bottom of her stomach.

"Christine," he said, his voice soft, "Erik has...not been a good husband. I leave you lonely in this house. Tell me what you want – anything: I will place Europe at your feet if only a whimsical fancy of yours."

The only thing she desired at the present time was to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling that was irritating her. "Will you sing to me?" was her final timid request.

He was only too happy to comply, and, before she could blink, he was at his beloved piano, his long, lithe fingers producing sounds that made her relax instantly.

"Christine," he suddenly said, twisting to look at her. "Why do you not love me?"

There was a very long pause, and she stared at his shoes.

But he did not wait for an answer; he rose and came to kneel in front of her. "I am so good to you," he said, and she could practically see the frown that was hidden by his mask. "I have given you a house above ground; I worship the very ground you stand on. And look!" He brushed his long fingers down her cheek. "You do not die when I touch you."

She allowed his fingers to stay a bit longer before pulling away and replying, "Erik, love is more than an outward expression. It is a feeling deep inside, somewhere right here." She placed a white hand on his chest, where she could feel his beating heart. "Love cannot come when you command it."

"Why not?" he demanded. "Everything else does."

A soft smile graced her mouth at his childishness. "Simply because you touch me does not mean you love me. How do you feel?"

"Right now?" He thought for a moment. "Confused. Angry."

"No. How do you know you love me, Erik?"

"I don't know," he snapped. "I do not enjoy talking about my _feelings_." She could sense his anger mount slightly but did not allow it to deter her.

"Then you don't love me, not really. Your love is shallow and weak, nothing like you proclaim it – "

"Quiet, you silly thing! You cannot even comprehend how much I love you, how much I worship you, adore the breath you take! My heart has never felt anything like this before; it does not beat for anyone but you." He took her cheeks, and his yellow eyes gazed into hers. "Everything I do, every breath I take, is to make you happy, to see you smile. How _dare_ you doubt my love for you!"

To his surprise, he found her smiling slightly. "I do not doubt it, Erik," she said, her voice quiet and gentle. And, before he could comprehend, she placed a very light kiss on his masked cheek.

He stuttered momentarily. "I – you..." There was a pause while he collected himself and gathered his thoughts. Finally, looking at her, he said,

"Thank you."


	32. Chapter 32

He was angry.

It had been such a long time since he was in a _real _temper. His small fits always left him soon, but she realized that he would not be soothed so easily this time. She was unlucky with the fact that she did not realize this that morning.

"Oh, hello," Christine greeted him as he walked through the door, but she did not turn from the vegetables she was washing. "Erik, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind – "

A door slammed shut somewhere upstairs. She turned to see that the kitchen was quite empty and, abandoning her task, left to investigate. The door was, predictably, locked, and she knocked patiently.

"Erik? What is it?"

There was silence, and she felt her stomach flip a little.

"You aren't...hurt again, are you?"

No answer.

Now pale, she knocked once more. "Erik! I'm going to get the doctor, unless you need me to stay."

As she was hurriedly pulling on her gloves downstairs, a cold hand encircled her arm. Erik's face was unmasked and cold, and she swallowed her gasp with difficulty.

"Where do you think you're going?" he hissed.

"Oh – I thought that you..." She trailed off, shrinking from him as she realized his foul mood. But he pulled her away from the door, ignoring her obvious terror.

"Haven't I _told _you not to go outside when the horse is out?"

"Yes, Erik." She nodded frantically. "But I – "

"Why do you insist on hurting yourself?" he thundered, completely deaf to her pleas. "You want to leave, that's it! You wish to harm yourself, and Erik would be forced to fetch a doctor, a handsome doctor with a nose, and you will leave with him!"

"Please," she whispered. "Tell me what happened..." His insecurities had been hidden for a very long time, but now they seemed to be exploding out of his chest.

She was trapped in some bizarre hold, bent over backwards, and the tips of her hair brushing the hard floor. But he kept leering at her, and she kept trying to get away, get away from his face and his madness. For one terrifying moment, his hands disappeared, and she was falling, bracing herself for the harsh impact, but he caught her again, this time his arm beneath her legs and back. She was swept up roughly into his arms.

There was a pounding in her head, a dull, annoyed, throbbing that wouldn't leave her alone, and she closed her eyes wearily as Erik hurried her upstairs. She knew what he was going to do, and it irritated her: he put her in the bedroom and locked the door behind him.

The door was unlocked when she woke. For two whole days she didn't catch one glimpse of him. He was very good at hiding; she knew that he was in the house. When she would check his study and find it empty, a loud noise would come from downstairs. And, when she went to look, there would be nobody. Her patience was wearing thin. She was not sure if he slept by her side those nights, for she was asleep when (if) he came and went.

"Good morning."

She looked up, surprised, on the morning of the third day to find him considerably cheerful. Timidly, she followed him downstairs and ate the breakfast presented.

"Why are you speaking to me?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," was his light response, and he cast her a curious glance. "Erik doesn't ignore his wife."

"I didn't see you for two days!" she argued defiantly.

"That doesn't sound like something I would do," he said innocently. "I love you; why would I avoid you?"

"Exactly – "

He interrupted her easily, taking away the half-cleared plate. "Now, Christine, I want to work on your jaw today. It has been so tense lately! Come."

She sighed angrily but followed him. Having lived with Erik and experienced his peculiarities, this sudden change did not surprise her. However, not knowing the _why _was what always irritated her. As he sat down at his magnificent piano, he peeled off his gloves and rolled his sleeves back.

His wrists...So strange, but Christine stared at them, fascinated. Hardly an inch of his skin was ever shown during a normal day. Whenever she did see something, like his hands or neck, a strange and curious feeling, similar to the one she felt when he was injured, stole over her. The skin reminded her that he was, for all his mysteries and grace, a man. A man with a heart, two lungs, fingers, toes, and...everything else.

"Christine?"

"Yes?"

"Are you feeling all right? You have been oddly distracted."

She hid her blush behind a sheet of hair that fell as she bent over to pick up a basket of yarn. It had, once again, been that chill in the bottom of her stomach that she couldn't name. If she described it to Erik, she would feel dreadfully silly and embarrassed. No; perhaps, if she simply pushed it from her mind, the uncomfortably-pleasant churnings in her stomach would disappear.

There was a lesson the next morning. As Christine stood over him, Bernhard played a sloppy sonata, fumbling over the notes and keys, with her occasionally commenting, "No, make sure to watch your rhythm," or "That's right," or "Don't tangle your fingers so."

When he was finished and sitting sulkily at the piano, Christine smiled. "Very good. You forgot your F sharp, though."

His blue eyes turned back to the music. "Where?"

"Right here," she answered, leaning over him to point it out. "Right by the triplet – "

The door opened. Christine's eyes widened and she immediately straightened before turning to find, with a terrible thrill of horror, Erik standing in the doorway, his eyes burning behind his death mask.

"So," he hissed, "this is how Christine spends her time: entertaining young men!"

"No – no!" she gasped, all the fears rushing through her as she realized what the scene suggested. "No, Erik!"

Bernhard had stood and turned, and the sight of him only enraged Erik further.

"A golden youth!" he snarled. "Erik realizes Christine's obsession with young, handsome blue-eyed men. It is sad that Erik is further from that than anything else. Do you think him handsome, hmm? Well, boy, you are! Aha! I see how he worships you, my deceitful, conniving wife! Notice the way he stands slightly in front, as if to protect you – protect you from your devoted husband." And his rage was mounting with each step he took.

Christine's breath was disappearing. "Go home, Bernhard," she whispered. He turned to look at her.

"Do you know him?" His voice, accented slightly, was tinged with fear.

"Please," Christine pleaded. "Go!"

With little effort, Erik had the boy squirming beneath his murderous hands, and Bernhard's feet dangled off the ground. Christine, her heart nearly beating its way out of her chest, pulled on Erik's jacket frantically.

"It is too bad," Erik said, "that you are the one to suffer for this. I'm sure all the other young men will not return when they hear. Is this correct, Christine? Lying wench...Do you realize that I still worship you, that I will take you from here to keep you to myself? Yes, it is true! Stop crying, Christine. There is nothing to cry about, I have told you countless times. Your tears are a wasted effort."

Bernhard, his face red, muttered something under his breath, and Erik slammed him against the wall, the boy's feet now close to half a foot off the ground.

"Stupid boy! Do you think Erik does not understand your tongue? He knows everything, and if you ever speak of my wife again, I will see that you suffer until God sees it fit to take you. But, time and time again, Erik's life has proven that there is no God. Are you a Christian, boy? Well? Answer! I grow tired of your spluttering."

"Erik, stop this!" Christine pleaded. "He did nothing! I've done nothing! I was merely teaching him music, I swear on my dear father's soul. Erik, let him go now!"

"On your father's soul?" the murderer repeated. "That is very serious, Christine, do you realize that? Why would this boy come here, if not for you? Ah! I know! To look at a monster, is that it? To lay your innocent eyes on a face that will burn in your memory. Well, look!"

And Erik took off his mask. Bernhard, who had struggled in silence, let out a disgusted cry and closed his eyes. Christine, trying to physically push them apart, looked up at Erik with earnest, pleading eyes and brought her white hand to rest on his hollow cheek.

"Erik," she said softly, her tone quivering, "if you really love me, let him go."

There was a great _thud_, and Erik's hand dropped. Bernhard scrambled to his feet, looking in horror at both of them. Without another word, he was out of the door.

"I'll kill him," Erik snarled. "And I will take you far away – yes, far away! I will lock you up where no one may set eyes on you but Erik! How should you like that, Christine?"

A hard, blunt silence reigned over the couple, and Erik turned, his back to Christine.

"Please," she whispered, approaching him. "Please, Erik. I taught him music, that's all. I wished – I wished to get you something with the money I earned. He's only a boy, Erik. I am not lying."

He shrugged off her small hand when it rested on his shoulder and was silent.

"You do believe me?" She stepped in front of him and placed her hands on his chest. "Please, Erik, I – "

"_Do not touch me_, _viper_!" he hissed venomously, jerking away from her. Those hands were stained, stained with young, smooth skin. Erik felt nauseous and wondered if he was going to be literally sick. The hours, _days_, that he had left her here, all alone, the bedroom hers. He could painfully see her in the bed, in the arms of a young, handsome man, giving herself freely, knowing full well that Erik was not to be expected until late. Erik moaned and gripped his hair, aware that he would go quite mad soon. How stupid he had been! Her sweet words and affectionate glances were nothing, meant nothing but to confuse him, lie to him. And he had believed her, _believed _that she might care for him, that she wanted to stay, that she did not care for her young man.

"Will you speak with me?" she inquired timidly. "I have little more to say, but I can assuage all your doubts and clear your ideas, Erik. You must trust me! Why won't you look at me?"

His golden eyes lifted reluctantly to search her pale, earnest face, and his exposed mouth was set in a grim line. Trembling, Christine raised her hand to touch his face, but he pulled away, the yellow eyes still staring at her. His face was still horrible, a thing found in a disturbed man's nightmares, but she looked at him unflinchingly, her expression beaming of truth and sorrow.

He _hated _her! Oh, how he _hated _her! His heart pounded savagely, and his large hands clenched into tight fists. But she did not respond when he grabbed her shoulders and shook her roughly, so hard that he expected to hear her neck snap.

"_Why_?" he screamed. "Why do you do this to Erik, your Erik who loves you so much and only does what he does for _you_! What else can he give you? What do you want, Christine, _what do you want_? Is this what you want – is it?"

For one terrifying moment, he pressed his cold hands over her eyes and touched his cold lips to her forehead, again and again.

"Just close your eyes tightly, Christine, and imagine! You can pretend – you are an actress, for heaven's sake!"

"No – don't touch me!" Christine shrieked, but he had stopped before she had time to raise a hand against him. He stood quite still, his yellow eyes shut tightly.

With slow, heavy efforts, Erik rid his mind of the rage and frustration that clouded him and without it was laid bare before Christine, sobbing into her hair and clutching her desperately.

"Please, Christine," he wept, "please tell Erik that you are still a good little wife. Tell him that not everything in this world is lying and evil. Tell him the truth!"

With a distressed and muffled sob, Christine realized exactly what Erik was so afraid of, and she allowed him to pull her to the floor and sob into her shoulder while his long fingers twisted her sleeves. She whispered useless words into his ear, feeling the hot tears seep through to her skin.

"Erik," she finally said, "you must believe me. There was nothing; there _is _nothing. I have remained loyal to you."

The strange couple sat on the floor for many minutes, and Erik, his eyes still wet, timidly asked if he might be allowed to give his dear wife a 'nice, real' kiss, for he loved her so. Christine felt his cool lips on her cheek. They brushed her skin like silk.

"Will you go to town tomorrow?" she asked, her voice sad from the thought.

Erik sighed and felt her hair glide over his fingers. "I will do whatever you wish."

And Christine thought of the last time that they had shared a day together before saying softly, "Please stay home with me." They were silent for several minutes.

"I am terribly sorry," he whispered. "I – I was..."

"I know," Christine said simply. When Erik asked if he might be allowed to stay with her that night, she found herself smiling and accepted his cold touch.

A year ago, Christine never would have imagined what she would spend her day like. A year ago, she would have thought of her disgust for Erik still present, and she would have imagined her hiding to avoid him. One year ago, Christine never would have thought of actually seeking out Erik's company, and she would have been ill at the thought of his bony, spider-like hands running through her hair.

_Perhaps I am going mad_, she thought to herself as they sat on the couch. Nevertheless, she did not shrink from his touch, but allowed it calmly. The sight was a quaint, domestic one. The morning disappeared, and mid-afternoon Erik said, "Let me make something for you."

She followed him into the kitchen before replying, "I will pick some flowers." As she gathered up a small basket and her shawl that were forever resting near the back door, Erik glanced at her affectionately and watched through the window as the wind picked up her hair and played with it gaily. Each flower felt warm, alive, in Christine's hands, and soon the basket was bursting with bright colors. A particular flower caught her eye. It rested some yards away and, when she moved toward it, a voice carried across the wind,

"Christine!"

She paused and looked back at the house, thinking that Erik had summoned her. But there was no movement, and her name came yet again. This time, however, she could tell the voice belonged to a woman.

The soft skin, naturally white, turned even paler when Christine saw her neighbor hurrying toward her. Marta's complexion matched Christine's. For once, no child hovered about the two.

"Christine," Marta said again, her voice small. "Christine, I would not be saying this unless I knew you were my true friend. Yesterday...oh, yesterday Bernhard came running inside, and his face was full of some kind of indescribable terror."

As Marta continued, Christine realized how stupid she and her husband had both been. She had not even thought about the family that lived next to her and, if Erik had, he did not want to worry his wife.

"Bernhard would not tell me anything, and he waited until his father returned. They spoke for a very long time in a locked room. Christine – the things they said. But I wish to hear it from you, my dear friend." Marta's brown eyes looked at her pleadingly.

Christine was quiet. What was she to say?

"Bernhard said – he told me that you were married to a..._monster_! I was certain it was simply silly ramblings of a love-sick child, but then he showed me the bruises on his neck. Christine?"

There was nothing to say, no words that would convince Marta otherwise, and Christine lowered her eyes on the basket of flowers, which now seemed so dull and limp and useless.

"Marta," she finally whispered. "Please. My husband was – is – a hot-tempered man. He was surprised to find Bernhard there so early, and it gave him the wrong ideas. I am...more saddened than I can say."

"That isn't all," Marta shivered, and Christine knew the motherly intuition that Marta possessed did not believe the young soprano's story. "Bernhard continued to talk about a mask and...a death's head."

When Christine did not reply, Marta stepped forward and took her hand sadly. "Christine, you must know that Richmond...he is very angry. You have been a good friend to both me and my children; we do not want to see you go. But Richmond...he is judgmental; he will not listen, nor will he allow it. Christine – I do not know what else to say."

A shuddering sob welled inside of Christine, and she instinctively embraced the kind woman who had been her only friend. "Thank you," she whispered. "Goodbye."

Marta was crying, too, as they parted, and Christine picked up the basket of flowers before turning slowly and walking back to the house. It did not seem fair that Erik was so perfectly content, that he could hum while finishing the potatoes, that his eyes lit up when he saw his darling wife walk in silently through the back door.

During her meal, she waved off his pestering questions and made the excuse, "I am simply tired." He inquired again that night, as she was tossing and turning fitfully, so she stilled but did not fall asleep.

Erik stayed home the next day, too, but Christine knew, with a strange, sickening feeling inside her stomach, that something was wrong.


	33. Chapter 33

**This chapter is a-specially for EplusCequalsLUV. Thanks for all the encouragement. :)**

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Three anxious days passed. Erik did not leave; Christine was grateful. From what she had gathered about Richmond, Christine compared him easily to Erik. The two men were over-protective and highly dominant in their family. Christine had seen what Erik would and could do if he thought his wife was in danger. She did not want to think about what her dear friend's husband would do. And so, she kept close to Erik's side. For the first time, she was very thankful that he watched over her so. The couple only ventured outside once or twice, and that was to replace the dying flowers. Erik trailed solemnly behind Christine as she hurriedly scooped up handfuls of wildflowers and many of her own.

"Do you miss her?" he asked solemnly.

Christine had been staring out of the window, and she started. "Who?" she distractedly.

"Your friend," was his reply.

There was a small silence. "Yes," she said, her voice soft, barely audible.

Erik came to stand by her, his long, lean frame settling comfortably next to hers. "I ruined it," he said sorrowfully. "I destroyed your friendship; Erik ruins everything he touches."

She wanted to argue with him but didn't feel particularly vengeful; her sadness was a morose, pensive unhappiness that had her staring out of the window for hours at a time. And so she was silent.

A cold hand rested tentatively on her arm. "Were you...very good...friends?" he timidly inquired.

"Yes," was her sigh. "And one of my only friends."

"I have never had friends," Erik stated seriously.

She decided not to remind him of his previous statement of how 'his only friend had died in his arms;' she did not want to bring up unpleasant memories, and Erik was so very overdramatic sometimes.

"Am I not your friend?"

For the first time, she looked at him only to see that he was staring at her. "I...shouldn't know. Are we?"

Another slight pause followed this. "Yes, Erik," she finally said gently. "We are friends."

And he smiled behind his mask. When he left, Christine returned her gaze to the luscious greenery that waited outside the window.

When he managed to take her mind elsewhere, it was...magnificent. Christine was swept away into his world, his knowledge, his effortless grace. Many times, she would simply watch him while he spoke. His hands were moving as he explained, his long fingers dexterously taking her soul, his eyes shone when he grew excited about the subject, and the voice – that unnatural _voice_ – was enough to make her mouth water. The voice covered everything from Nebuchadnezzar to Columbus to Aeschylus to Lafayette and so much more. Christine's mind swirled with all the new ideas. He scoffed Agamemnon and analyzed the Testaments so thoroughly that Christine found no way to contradict him on principles and ideas which she had been taught since her birth.

"Christine? Are you listening to me?"

She blinked and looked up at Erik, who was peering down at her. "Are you well?" he continued. "Am I tedious?"

"No, of course not!" she hastily said. "Please continue."

With that unfailing stare, his golden eyes watched her for a moment before he sighed. "I haven't much more to say," he admitted, crossing over to the window. "It was very intriguing. I attended one of the exhibitions three or four years ago – the last one, I believe. I should very much like to meet him, however. I hear he resides in Paris."

Christine's sigh matched his, and she quietly rose to join him. As she slipped her arm through his, an impulsive and shuddering twitch passed through him, and he gazed down at her incredulously.

"Erik." Her voice was very soft, a near whisper. "You should be the most celebrated man. There should be hundreds of books dedicated solely to you; rivers and streets and magnificent temples should bear your name."

"Ah. _Should_." For an odd moment, she could tell that he was smiling. "You flatter me."

A shiver passed through her svelte frame. It was strange and humbling to think that Erik had chosen her, a simple Swedish girl, out of thousands of elegant and talented women.

"It is not difficult to understand," he said quietly, and Christine blushed to realize she had spoken her thought. "Your grief for your father, your angelic voice, your young, naïve innocence all have an ethereal pull that Erik cannot resist." He paused for a moment, his glowing eyes searching the landscape through the glass. "I feel as if...there is something that ties you to me, a rope that is more delicate than moonlight and stronger than iron. Neither time nor distance can sever something I feel more strongly than I ever have in my entire miserable existence." After another moment of silence, he turned away, muttering. "I am a sentimental fool!"

Christine caught his hand quickly and met his eye with an affectionate, thankful smile. The heart in her breast pounded savagely, as if wanting to come out of her ribcage and expose the deepest secrets that lie buried in its corner. The sheer silence was profound. All the wild, swirling wind had suddenly died, leaving bated air in its wake. The two stared at the other, chests rising and falling forcedly, each one unsure, questioning, unprepared, and his sharp eyes lowered to her pink, soft lips that were parted ever so slightly. Christine found her hand clammy but left it in his grasp, and suddenly her skin felt very hot. She did not wish to think or make assumptions or even take the energy to draw breath. All conscious, clear thoughts were washed from her mind as Erik drew closer, his free hand reaching to touch her face. The cool fingers were welcome against her inflamed cheek, and she instinctively leaned into his palm.

A sigh later, and he was on the other side of the room, the warm air disappearing rapidly. She blinked once more, the fog leaving her mind. It wasn't until this that she realized her disappointment.

----

If Erik was a laughing man, he would have laughed. However, seeing as the joyful sound rarely came from his thin, shapeless lips, he merely smiled. Christine was falling asleep in the soft chair that resided in his library. She did not know he was watching her and acted accordingly. After a few minutes, her eyes would begin to close slowly, and she would slump over the armrest for a brief period before jerking herself awake. No more than three minutes later, she would begin to doze off once again. Erik had told her to go to bed more than twice, but she adamantly denied her exhaustion.

However, after a muffled yawn, she stood up and quietly informed him that she would be going to bed. He bid her a gracious good night and returned to his book, although the words ran together in a messy, indistinguishable way as his mind began to drift.

This morning – he had wanted to kiss her. He very nearly believed that she would have allowed it, too; he _wanted _to believe she would acquiesce, but he didn't. Those tantalizing, enticing lips called to him silently. How strange it would be to feel them against his own in a truthful way. Ah, that kiss all those months ago was something he did not wish to remember. If she _really_ kissed him....With a delighted, guilty shiver, he ran a hand through his thin hair and brought his fingers down to rub his ear. When he thought for a moment, he sobered. She would be his living wife, he told himself sternly. _Living_. He would do nothing to change that; sacrificing his luxuries was something he was willing to do. Sacrificing her life for one blissful moment was an idea that he revolted immediately.

"Erik?"

Immediately, he snapped his book shut and stood, facing the door and trying not to feel condemned by his fantasies.

"Are you...are you going to stay here all night?" She looked innocent, unspoiled, in her long nightgown. Her blonde hair was let loose to give way to her glorious curls, and Erik repressed the tremor that was working its way through him.

"No, Christine," he replied. "I will...read in bed – if it will please you," he added hastily.

With a nod, she disappeared. Erik clutched his book and left the room. It was absurd to think that he would understand anything in it while in bed with his wife. The last idea made him pause momentarily to regain his breath. She did not speak as he entered and settled himself next to her. However, when he opened the book, she rolled over quietly, nestling herself against him comfortably. Erik looked down at her, wanting to believe that he was in bed with his wife, reading a book, and she had a smile on her pretty, youthful face. Erik wanted to trust himself that he owned a respectable house and did not worry about money, that just this morning he and his bride had talked for hours without running out of subjects, that he no longer felt a rush of murderous adrenaline every time he was threatened.

A pale, thin hand rested on Christine's hair, and her smile grew a bit. Closing the unread book, he extinguished the single candle and gathered his wife up into his arms. If he wanted to flatter himself further, he would have admitted that she sighed contentedly and clutched at him with equal fervor.


	34. Chapter 34

Christine woke sluggishly. It was unbearably hot, which was unusual, for Erik's arms usually kept her cool at night. She shifted in the bed and realized that her husband's skeletal arms were no longer around her waist. Instantly worried, she sat up in bed, forcing her eyes open.

What met her eyes was something that she knew had to happen someday. Bright, orange flames were licking the walls, their blazing heat scorching her, and she cried out before looking to the other side of the bed. Erik was calmly pulling on his awaiting boots, his actions slow and smooth. Christine crawled over and tugged on his shirt.

"Erik, Erik the house is on fire!" she gasped hysterically. He looked at her, and she could tell that he was smiling strangely.

"Yes, dear," was all he said.

The flames had crept everywhere, and it was burning fast. Two walls were now consumed entirely with the third and fourth in high danger of erupting into flames. Christine noticed, with a despairing moan, that the door was being burned fiercely. She was so hot, and she felt the perspiration begin to line her forehead. Smoke was creeping toward the bed. Christine let out a half-scream, half-cough, and Erik finally stood. There was crashing from below.

"Nothing to worry about, my love," Erik said reassuringly, coming to kneel on the bed and scoop her up into his arms. "Some of the other floors from the attic have given way."

Erik gingerly stepped onto the floor, testing its weight, and he quickly approved. Christine buried her face into his shoulder momentarily before she realized that she could not bear _not _to see those horrible flames eat up her home. She watched them destroy the painting that hung in her room. Erik had moved it from the hall to their bedroom because she loved it dearly; she hadn't even thanked him for it. The fire blackened her wardrobe. Pricey and fashionable dresses hung in there. Erik had brought her home a new one on an alarming basis. They were gone. She felt her eyes fill with tears. Even now, the orange and yellow flames were crawling onto their bed, consuming their blankets and pillows. The two had been there mere minutes ago.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash that seemed to tear into her brain, and she screamed as the flames suddenly jumped higher; sparks were flying everywhere. A portion of the roof above them had given way, and white-hot beams were crashing down. Instantly, Erik had set her to her feet and pushed her against the only wall that was not on fire. Even in this extreme situation, Christine blushed fiercely. His entire frame was pressed against her. She could feel his hard legs against her own, his bony hips digging into her stomach, his chest against hers, her face pressed against his cool neck. He was shielding her from the flames, and she heard him hiss slightly as sparks jumped on his back.

The flames eventually died to their original state, yet it was still frightening. Christine could not see anything except Erik's smooth, white throat, and she breathed heavily into it. Erik untangled himself from her, pulling her away from the wall yet still keeping a firm grip on her hand while he knelt on the floor and began to mutter to himself.

"Yes, quite sure...almost....No, you old fool, not....But then, what...? Aha! Of course, it will...."

And a little queer door sprung out of the wall.

For the first time, Christine was delighted with the fact that Erik cut up her house. He rose to his feet and nudged her forward. As she peered into the wall, however, she stumbled back. The passage was actually a very, very steep drop, leading to somewhere only Erik knew, and the pitch-black darkness frightened her.

"Go on, Christine," he urged.

"Erik," she whimpered, "where will it go?"

"To safety," he reassured impatiently. "Now hurry!" She stared at the black chute and shivered.

"Christine," Erik said softly, placing a hand on her back. "Trust me. Erik would never hurt you."

The young woman sniffed and nodded before allowing him to help her slide into the awkward hole.

"I hardly had the time to enlarge it," Erik explained unnecessarily. "I will follow shortly."

Christine looked at her husband's masked face once more before she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and allowed his large hand to nudge her forward. The ride was smooth, frighteningly fast, and cold. She screamed and shielded her eyes; the ceiling was too low to sit up in, so she leaned back in a bizarre half-sit and prayed fiercely. The wind was ripping in her hair, piercing her flesh, pushing her nightgown up above her knees so it was barely concealing half of her thighs, and she pushed it back down frantically, though it was highly useless, as the end of the slide soon came. The drop into the pit was a few feet, and she landed in a graceless heap, shrieking loudly at the sudden impact with the hard, cold earth.

It was still freezing, and she crawled to the other side, her chest heaving. Suddenly, she could hear a strange whizzing noise, and soon Erik came tumbling out of the chute. If her eyes had been adjusted to the pitch-black darkness, she would have seen him on the floor, his long arms and legs tangled hopelessly. However, somehow he had managed to land in his heap so elegantly that, if she could have seen, she would have felt slightly jealous. Erik quickly straightened himself and strode over to her.

"You are all right, then?" he asked concernedly. There was a loud, resounding crash from above, and Christine leapt to her feet before throwing herself into his arms desperately.

"Our home," she whispered into his chest. Perhaps a few months ago Erik would have drawn away reclusively, yet now he was allowed to hold his wife every night, and he knew how. He slipped his arms around her waist and held her gently, feeling her shiver against him. There was further silence, and her hands crept up to clutch his shirtfront.

"We must dress and then contact the gendarmes," Christine suddenly said distractedly. She was looking at the opposite wall and biting her lip in worry. "I'm sure they'll help us, Erik, and we will live in town until we can find a new house to move into. Perhaps even Marta will allow us to stay with her for a while. It would be difficult with all her children, but she is such a good lady that she wouldn't turn us onto the streets. Oh, Erik, all the things we've lost! Your piano and violin, my pretty dresses, your library, all the paintings and carpets, furniture and knick-knacks...." She trailed off.

Erik was absolutely still. During the course of her monologue, her fingers had crept up even farther. They were now gently running over the bare skin on his chest. He was positive that she paid it no mind, for she continued, still bumbling on about something, and he felt her fingernails gently graze his white skin. His breath stopped in his throat. A massive chill erupted in his stomach.

"Erik?"

He forced his mind to clear.

"Erik, are you listening?"

His eyes glowed in the darkness. "Yes, dear." A plan was already on his mind. Now there was nothing to do but wait. "We shall have to stay here until the fire stops. I will not risk you becoming injured."

She agreed readily, and the two sat down on the hard ground. Still shaking, Christine crawled timidly into his lap, and he wrapped his arms around her protectively. As she leaned against his chest tiredly, her fingers rested once again on his chest, and he was attacked by that horrible feeling as she traced patterns on his pale, dry skin. She was shivering from cold and fear, and he did his best to remedy both. For once, his whispered words seemed to have achieved their purpose; Christine stilled, her breathing becoming regular, and he sensed her falling into a fitful sleep.

A hot rage was warming him. He wanted to find every single person involved and rip them apart with his own hands. All he wished was to see the same fear reflected in their eyes that he saw in Christine's. It was no longer about his own selfish needs. They deserved to suffer simply for Christine's sake. The terror that had shined in her eyes was something he had vowed she would never feel, but tonight....There were countless things he could do to make _them _scream in horror. Setting fire to each house was too easy, too merciful. This fire was more than physical for Christine. She had seen her world, her purpose, burn down around her. Erik's teeth gritted angrily, and he held her closer in the dark, cold pit.

Lonely hours passed as she slumbered. He supposed that this was necessary; her strength would be needed. The more he thought about what he wished to do...the more he grew weary from the mere idea. His body and mind were so _tired _of anger, exhausted from murder, the mindless slaughtering. How physically trying it would all be!

_But it would be for Christine_.

The smaller voice that resided in the deep corners of his mind crawled to the surface timidly. _Christine never wanted you to do anything like this_. _If she knew what you were planning_, _the furthest thing it would do is please her_.

The young woman in question shifted in her sleep, nuzzling closer to him and clutching his shirt. Erik warmed his hands in her sunshine hair, the only light in the dark tomb, and, feeling wretched and daring, he took off his mask before resting his face on her head, inhaling the clean scent of her hair, but it was tainted by the smoke. The dull roaring above was fading, quieting, and now, all he could hear was Christine's soft breathing, mixed harmoniously with the sound of his thumping heart.

It had been early morning when the fire was started. Erik would not wander into Paris in the broad daylight, hungry, tired, dirty, and his wife in her nightclothes. It would not take long with the horse, and Erik wished to get back to the Opera House with plenty of time to make his old, prison-like home inhabitable once again. His long fingers trailed down her arm, and she sighed adorably before pushing herself off his chest to wake, but she, to his delight, remained in his lap, blinking the sleep away. After a minute of silence, she leaned against him once again, finding some bizarre pillow in his bony collarbone.

"Are you cold?" he asked softly.

"My feet." Her voice whispered out from the dark. She was, naturally, barefoot, and Erik, feeling more and more like an awkward schoolboy instead of an intelligent grown man, hesitantly pulled her nightgown over them and rubbed his long, bony fingers up and down the material, creating the heat that she wanted. Christine mumbled an embarrassed 'thank you' and fell silent for another moment.

"Is it time to leave?" she finally asked.

"Not yet, darling," was his quiet answer. "We shall have to wait only a few more hours."

"We are going back to the Opera House." There was no question in her voice.

"Yes." His mind raced with all the horrible memories that lurked with the shadows in the dark, confining walls of his house, and he thought of his beautiful bride resting in his arms. Her pale, haggard, thin face that had grown so beautiful and so healthful loomed in his memory. "It will not be for long," he assured her, suddenly, desperately. "Erik promises. He simply will find another house – farther away, with no neighbors. Yes, and then Christine will be happy once again, and she will laugh and sing and let Erik hold her like he is doing now."

Her silence terrified him. However, she merely raised a hand to entwine around his neck and muttered, "It does not matter, Erik. I will be happy wherever you are."


	35. Chapter 35

**I have a new poll that I'm closing on April 1st. Thanks so much for reviews!**

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It was impossible for a place to be chilly and muggy at the same time, and yet that was what Christine and Erik endured for many hours. The air around them was stiff and old, but she still shivered from the cold. Erik occupied her mind with stories and songs, attempting to keep her from tears and sorrow. The house was gone; it did not matter to him, but Christine had adored it, settled it close to her heart. How strange it was, to think of Christine like this! Not long ago, he would have been deciding what would be best for _him_, and, if it was also something good for Christine, the decision was wonderful. Now, however, he was forever putting Christine before his own miserable hide. His love had grown deeper, more irrational, which he never thought possible.

"Christine, dear?" he said softly, placing a hand on her arm. "It is time to go."

"Thank goodness," was her reply, and she stood up slowly, holding back a groan as her tired, stiff legs protested. Erik made sure she was well before going to the opposite side of the pit, which was only about seven feet long by six feet wide. His incoherent mutterings drifted over to Christine, and she smiled ever so slightly.

"Come here, darling," was his next comment. Obediently, she found him in the dark and stood by while he stretched up and pushed against the low ceiling. A shower of dirt fell upon him, and he sighed irritably before brushing himself off and pulling Christine in front of him.

"Do you see that?" he asked. She looked up. A dim, barely-visible sliver of light shone down, and she gave her answer quickly. "Up above, there are footholds. I am going to make sure everything is all right, but then I will come down to help you. Here." Swiftly, he grabbed something invisible inside the strange hole in the roof and pulled himself up. Christine watched him fearfully, a slight terror working its way into her heart. A beam of weak light suddenly pierced the room, and Erik fell back down into the horrible pit. She blinked, adjusting to the light that had been hidden for hours.

"Are you ready?"

"I – I suppose so," she whispered, trying not to be intimidated. The hole looked so narrow, and she was unsure if she would be able to climb. How silly it was! Erik pulled her directly beneath the beam of light. She saw just how filthy his white shirt was, and Christine nearly groaned to imagine how her cream nightgown looked. Brushing the hair out of her face, she watched him lock his fingers together and bend down to one knee.

"Place one foot on my knee," he explained, reading her expression easily. "Take the other one and put it in my hand. I will lift you up."

Slowly, awkwardly, and very embarrassedly, Christine did as she was told, grabbing his thin shoulders for support. His fingers were cold against her feet, and she gasped slightly as he stood up carefully, pushing her closer to the light. Quite suddenly, she realized that he had a very lovely view up her dress, and she lost her balance, shrieking as she fell. Erik's long, skeletal arms caught her steadily.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He made no comment but allowed her to regain her breath.

"Shall we try again?" His voice was soothing and calm, but it did not help Christine, who replied nervously,

"You wouldn't mind terribly...going first, would you?"

Erik's chuckle was short and somehow pleasant. "Christine, how would you pull yourself up into a hole that you could not reach, even if you jumped?"

When she found that she had no answer, Christine bit her lip instead and looked up at the hole. A piece of sky was her reward, a piece of heaven, and she stared at it hungrily. It was tinted with red, and a small cloud drifted over lazily. Dusk was approaching. She looked at Erik, who had followed her gaze.

"It is not fair," he said softly, his voice caressing, "that you should bear this fate."

Gently, he put her back onto the ground and kneeled once again. "Try once more," he urged her. Christine's face flushed hotly, and she nervously pushed the nightgown around her legs. His long fingers rested around her feet as he lifted her into the hole for the second time. Christine prayed fervently, wishing to say something but finding her tongue stuck in prayer.

"Christine?" his voice called from below.

She let out an embarrassed moan and felt frantically for the hold he had explained. "I can't find it!" A moment later, her hand struck wood, and she pulled timidly but found that it held strong. Not more than a foot above that was another one, and Christine dug her knees into the dirt surrounding her before pulling. Her arms were weak, unused to such exercise, and she grunted angrily at how ridiculously shaky her entire frame was. Step by strange step, she pulled herself closer to the welcoming, beloved sun, feeling the roots brush her hands and snag at her dress. Dirt ran in little waterfalls, splashing her hair and rolling over her skin. Finally, her hand reached to touch long, soft grass, and a cool breeze swept over her fingers. As she pulled herself up, a sense of accomplishment and proud purpose poured through her. Christine smiled...until she ran her eyes along the landscape.

Erik pulled himself up a minute later, climbing out expertly as if it was something he did every day. He found his wife sitting quietly on the grass, filthy as anything, and staring at a pile of ash and smoldering rubble. The stairs still went up, connected to a few beams that were charred. The two could see the remnants of the black piano, and Erik watched a lazy trail of smoke rise, merciless and uncaring of what Christine felt. She made no comment; her eyes were not overflowing tears. She merely stared. As much as he wished to give her the time she needed, his eyes scanned the surrounding wilderness.

"Christine, it is time to go," he said for the second time that evening. She nodded and stood, showing the full extent of the grime that lingered on her clothes and skin. While walking across the lawn, Erik rubbed his ear and sighed sadly. Never, _never _did he wish to be pulling her, half-dazed, across an unfriendly terrain, barefoot, hungry, dirty, and in her nightclothes. The idea never would have even come up in his mind.

"I am sorry, Christine," he suddenly gasped, turning to look at her desperately. "I am so sorry. Erik should never have let this happen. He should have protected his wife, saved her from – "

He cut himself off as she wrapped her arms around his chest. "It's quite all right, Erik," she reassured him. "You have already saved me in more ways than one."

As a wary smile crept onto his lips and he turned, he finally focused on the shack-like building that awaited him. However, he stopped shortly and looked at his wife once again. "Wait here," he commanded worriedly. Christine watched him approach the building. It had not survived the arsons' wrath. Little more than a black frame remained, and all inside was quiet. Erik gingerly pushed the door open; it fell on its hinges, a large _banging _sound echoing through the quiet, tranquil air. His eyes hardened slightly. The large, black horse, magnificent, high-strung, powerful, was dead. He took only a moment to watch its unblinking black eye before turning around to find Christine smiling hopefully at him. Throwing one more glance at the deceased animal, he quickly returned and took her hand.

"It ran," he lied easily. "Obviously frightened by the flames. There is no need to fret, though, dear. Come."

They began to walk. With each step they took, Erik felt Christine's grip on his hand grow tighter. The sun was waving its last rays of goodbye, and he saw that they had chosen Christine's fair, dirt-covered face to rest for a moment. Erik quietly asked if she was hungry.

"No," she replied simply. "I will wait until we get home."

Birds were happily chirping their last songs, and a few flitted here and there on a bush they passed. The two walked hand in hand, bizarrely content. A swift rider passed, and Erik immediately embraced her protectively, but the horse passed without comment from the rider.

A while later, when the sun had finally disappeared, Christine said, "I think I am almost sure of myself, Erik."

"Excuse me?"

"Remember when you asked if I would ever know how I felt about you? Well, I am almost certain that I know. It won't be long."

The stars blinked to life above them. Christine grew slightly weary, but she did not tell Erik, who walked confidently, holding her hand tightly. Her bare feet scratched against the dirt and rocks, but she would not say anything until a thorn pierced the bottom of her foot, and she inhaled sharply.

"How stupid I am!" Erik said in reply. Without regarding her slight refusal, he swept her up into his arms and carried her. Step after step brought them closer to twinkling lights. A large carriage passed, followed later by another horse and rider. Neither stopped to question, and Erik was grateful for the small blessing. At Christine's insistence, he allowed her to walk for a little while, but soon the pain from the previous injury and the little rocks and sticks that littered the small road caused her to lag, unwilling to give a hint of discomfort. Erik stopped for a moment before lifting her once again.

"Are we quite a sight, Erik?" she asked, and he looked down to see her smiling.

He considered this question: a masked man carrying a young, beautiful woman dressed in a filthy, torn nightgown to Paris in the dark streets, both of them grimy beyond compare, hungry, and the young lady with no shoes. "Yes, I suppose we are."

"Do I look truly awful?" was her next playful inquiry.

"No!" he immediately replied. "You, my dear, are the prettiest thing France has to offer."

A silvery laugh filled the air, and Erik's heart stopped beating momentarily, too overjoyed to be expressed in mere words. She sighed lightheartedly, loudly. "Erik, I am surprised I am not the silliest, vainest woman on earth, the way you flatter me so!"

He humored her with another small chuckle, and they fell silent once again. Christine gazed up at him while he walked. How relaxed he seemed, how utterly content and so...vulnerable. This was different from the fateful night she had torn his mask away, but it was the same raw openness that he so often hid from her, fearing she would take advantage of his susceptible state. Quite the contrary, it was something that she was irrepressibly fond of, this childish and easy mind that rarely ever emerged.

"If you wish to walk, love," he said, "you had better do so now. You do not wish to find out what lurks on the Parisian streets."

Christine graciously climbed down and took his large hand once again. "It is lucky that the air is so warm tonight," she commented.

"What do you wish to eat when we arrive?" was his peculiar reply. She stole a curious glance at him to find that he was gazing upon her lovingly, his hard yellow eyes now a soft gold.

"Oh, I will fix something. Look how beautiful Paris is!"

He followed her pointing finger to the city and eyed it distastefully. The place had been his prison for nearly two decades. The world was easier to access when he had been younger. And now, he was walking back to it, a faithful, reluctant slave to its harsh whims. Suddenly, he was struck by the image he had toyed with nearly two years ago: he and Christine, walking through the park holding hands, teasing playfully. That was something normal couples achieved on a daily basis. Erik and his wife were far from normal; perhaps this was the only thing they could hope to acquire.

As the city loomed over them, she allowed him to slip his arms under her knees and around her back, lifting her easily. It was busier inside the walls. Erik was cautious and slow, taking small, unused streets. Christine, trusting and knowing that he would protect her, put her head upon his shoulder and closed her eyes, simply waiting for the biting darkness of the underground.

Erik watched the Opera House twinkle brilliantly under the moon, sighing into his bride's golden hair. He was here again, here in a place he had never wished to enter. The Rue Scribe welcomed him gently, and he slipped into the building as easily as if he had never left. The walk down was long, laborious, and Christine opened her eyes to see a pitch-black, inky darkness welcome here. There were no stars under here. She briefly wondered what Marta had done today. It was strange that only early last night Christine had been asleep in her bed, accompanied by her strange husband, who was walking quickly.

"Do you remember," she asked quietly, "when you first brought me down here?"

She sensed a soft, almost reluctant smile. "You were, admittedly, much more elegantly dressed, as was I. But yes, this scene is very familiar." He suddenly stopped in the cold passage, and his golden eyes looked down upon her. "I have changed your life in ways that you never asked for, ways that you never wanted. I...I am sorry, Christine."

A gentle silence followed. The smell of murky water met her like an old, odd relative, and small waves lapped at Erik's feet. He set Christine down carefully before going over to inspect the dusty little boat that rocked gently in the shallows. Christine peered through the gloom but was unable to see the little home that rested on the other side. As she settled herself in, she was unable to hold back another smile.

"Do you remember," she said again, "when I fell into the lake?"

It was an incident that, frankly, Erik tried to keep out of his mind. He did not like remembering how out of control he had been in those precious seconds, how a sickening satisfaction had stolen over his cold heart, and he would not remember the way she looked after climbing out and into the dim, seductive light.

"Yes," he finally admitted. The two rowed in another bout of serene silence. Finally, the boat bumped smoothly against the banks, which were cold and slimy against Christine's bare, caked feet. Erik made sure that all was well with her before walking along the walls, running his fingers along the slippery bricks and murmuring what sounded like heathen incantations. He had sealed the house in a way that it was difficult to reenter (impossible for anyone except the masked magician), and Erik's mind raced. There was always dropping through the forest, but one look at Christine obliterated the mere thought.

After another minute with no results, Erik was quite tempted to break the door down, which he knew would wield no results except making him feel a bit better. There was another way, but it would require more muck and filth and narrow holes. He told Christine as much, explaining to her that he had locked all the doors under the idea that they would never return. He told her that the only way in was crawling through a very small tunnel that would lead into his bedroom – unless, of course, she would rather spend the night on the bank while he broke into the house. Christine examined him for a moment and then looked at her dress.

"Another layer of mud will not hurt anything," she replied, managing to give him a small smile. He clasped her hand in the dark and pulled her around the small house, trying not to think of her bare feet touching the absolute waste that covered the dark sludge around the lake. Once again in his familiar territory, Erik quickly found the hole and cleared out the opening. Christine, still unused to all the dark, kneeled down to peer into the endless tunnel. It was worse than the one at the house, and she wasn't sure she would be able to wiggle her way inside.

"Nonsense," Erik contradicted instantly when she had told him of her fears. "If I am able to fit, you are able. I will be right behind you, darling."

Once again, Christine swallowed her own insecurities and fears before cautiously entering into the tight, enclosed and damp space. It was difficult to crawl efficiently; her nightgown was dragging her knees, and her hands were in constant fear of brushing a rat or spider. Erik's voice drifted up behind her, his words soothing, encouraging, and giving her a surge of courage. Foot by foot she advanced. He did not stop his whispered support, and the voice was so enchanting that, before Christine realized what had happened, her palm brushed hard, cold stone. Laughing delightedly, insanely, she toppled onto the floor of Erik's bedroom, feeling the weight of tons of earth and wood press down upon the ceiling. Not a minute later, Erik emerged, too, and he helped her up.

"Are you quite all right?" was his inquiry, which he had been asking all night. Christine nodded and hurried to the door, which she flung open to meet a blast of stale, cold air.

"Look, Erik!" she laughed, running over to the organ. "Here it is! Doesn't it sound marvelous?" The couch was dusty, but she ran her hands over the soft fabric of the cushions. "Do you remember when I pushed these over? Oh, it seems as if it was centuries ago! And here is the clock that you gave me. It needs to be wound. Do you recall when you came home late and we argued?"

During her excited speech, Erik had managed to light the candles, which clearly displayed the inches of dust that had blanketed itself over every surface.

"I will draw you a bath," he said, walking over to her bedroom. "It will take a minute to get the water running again."

As he left, Christine raised a hand to her hair and exclaimed softly with disgust. Her hands were caked in dirt, sludge residing under her fingernails, and she shuddered as she examined her ripped, filthy nightgown that clung to her feebly. Grime coated her feet, and her hair was slick with all the muck that had covered it. Christine waited impatiently for Erik to return, but meanwhile she took the hem of her nightgown and used it to wipe the dust off the organ bench and the keys.

His sigh whispered around the room, and she smiled tiredly at him. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing pale, thin arms, and his shirt had been unbuttoned ever so slightly. Christine looked to the floor, feeling that sensation return to her stomach once again. When he told her that her bath was ready and handed her a change of nightclothes, she thanked him quietly and hurried to the large tub, slipping off the grimy clothing and stepping into the warm, cleansing water, feeling it free her from the dirt that encompassed her.

As she bathed, she quietly thought of all the events that had transpired, and the first thought that came to her head was, _I am grateful for Erik_. She started a bit at the idea. It was all his doing; he was the reason she was stuck down here, wiping off a day's worth of dust and sleaze. And yet, that small voice battled against her. She was lucky that he had been so gentle, so apologetic, ready to please her in whatever way he could. She was grateful that it had been _Erik _today; not the half-crazed, violent monster that had treated her so poorly. This had not been Erik's fault. If the same thing had happened if she had been married to a different man...the outcome would have been drastically different. Erik's main concern had been to get her out of harm's way, to make sure that she was comfortable. And so, she emerged, tiredly smiling at him. He was holding a tray full of bread and cold meats.

"Sometimes I very much wonder if you are indeed an angel," she thanked him, sitting on the couch and accepting the food graciously. Erik smiled under his mask but did not bother to tell her that the quickest way up to the Opera House was a shortcut through its well-stocked kitchens. While she finished her meal, he prepared the Louis-Philippe room for her and cleaned himself up, thankfully stripping the disgusting clothing for the beautiful Persian robe that he had reluctantly left here. It wouldn't have felt right to be wearing it any other place than the Opera House, his domain, for, no matter where he ran, he would always be the Phantom.

Christine contentedly watched him build a small fire. However, when he took a seat in his customary, wing-backed chair instead of beside her, she felt a shiver of huge disappointment run through her veins. Without a second thought, Christine abandoned her almost-finished meal and padded over to him softly. He jumped when she crawled into his lap but allowed her the pleasure. The two inhaled their spouse's scent, clean and warm, and each felt a shiver of terrified delight run up their spines.

"Erik," she said sleepily, watching the orange flames dance. Not long ago they had destroyed her beautiful, bonding home. Now, however, they leapt seductively before her, and she blinked slowly. "Even though that we are back here, this...this will not change anything."

His fingers paused while sliding through her damp hair, and he murmured a request for an explanation.

"Because we're here – " She interrupted herself with a yawn. "We still can....Oh, you know." And she nuzzled closer to him, allowing his loud heartbeat and the occasional _crack_ from the fire to lull her to sleep.

Erik held her until the fire died and all the heat he could feel was from her skin. His very bones seemed weary, and he carried his wife to their – her – bedroom. Now that they were back, there was no need for her to allow him to sleep next to her. The thought sliced him, and he put her down into the awaiting sheets. Christine, however, had a different idea, and she held onto his sleeve. Erik attempted to pry her fingers, but she grunted in displeasure and would not relinquish her grip.

"Stay," she whispered groggily. His mind raced with all the things he had needed to do. The house was in desperate need of cleaning, and fresh groceries had to be picked up. Both of them needed new clothes, and he had to start looking for another violin. But Christine opened her eyes just a little, putting on a small pout. And Erik lay beside her, gathering her into his arms, allowing himself, for just a moment, to think that he was really loved.


	36. Chapter 36

She took dinner quietly a few days after. Erik had been scarce, but he explained that this was necessary to make sure everything in the house worked properly. Each time he left, she felt as if he was taking something away from her, something she wanted to keep for herself, and Christine would continually scold herself for thinking like a child. However, it was something she could not stop feeling. She hated him leaving and waited impatiently for his return. Her heartbeat quickened slightly whenever his deft, large hands touched her face or hair, and the feeling in her stomach increased to such an extent that once she shied away from his touch, reluctant to let the sensation take hold of her.

It was long ago when Christine realized that she did not hate Erik. Those feelings that replaced the loathing were wary, cautious respect, soon to be taken over by a firmer and more resolved friendship. This had lasted for many months, but during their stay at the house, Christine found that the friendship was deeper, stronger, more of a trusted, chaste affection than anything else. And now...this, too, was stronger. She did not want to put a name on this new idea. Now that Erik was kinder and softer than he ever had been, Christine wished to express these peculiar feelings, but every time she tried, her tongue stuck and her throat became tight.

There was a slight _creak _as a door slid open, and Christine hurried to find Erik by his organ, unpacking something. She approached, and he spared her a warm glance before turning his attention back to the long, rectangular box. Christine did not ask him what he had but waited patiently. Erik chuckled as she gasped excitedly. A magnificent violin gleamed in the candlelight, the hard wood of its body shining tantalizingly, the strings ready for an elegant bow. Christine touched its neck reverently.

"Not quite as fine as my other one," he said conversationally, pulling out a bow and examining the shape. "But the best one I could find."

As he played for her, she did not think about the musty smell, or the chilly sheets, or the quiet lapping of the lake water, or the secret tunnels in Erik's room. Music filled her thoughts, and she sat happily on the couch for hours while Erik grew acquainted with his new instrument. Quite suddenly, he stopped and set the violin down carefully.

"That is quite enough," he said quietly before turning to address her. "Shall I fix your supper?"

"Thank you," Christine warmly said, "but no. I will prepare something myself."

As he unpacked extra writing paper, he heard her sigh irritably and immediately left to find her rummaging through the cupboards.

"Is something wrong, dear Christine?" He approached her cautiously, and she turned to face him.

"You don't happen to have cream, Erik, do you?"

He blinked. "No – I don't believe – I will get some for you."

"No!" she objected quickly, but he was already out of the kitchen and headed for his bedroom. "No, Erik, I will simply – "

"I will be back shortly," he promised, and he disappeared into his dark room.

"But it is the middle of the night!" Christine protested to the empty house. Trying not to feel too pleased, she smiled and returned to the kitchen.

The stars were covered by heavy clouds, and Erik was nothing more than a little piece of night stealing along the streets, his yellow eyes two candles burning in a window. He had an idea of where the cream was and headed there directly. As he walked, he recalled her first attempts in the kitchen and stifled a small laugh. That meal, however, was not as blissful as the ones that they had been sharing. (Well, he sat and watched while she ate. Nothing she could say would persuade him to remove his mask and eat in front of her. It was a disgusting sight that he would not expose her to.)

Predictably, his usual grocery shop was closed, its windows black, and Erik stood back for a minute, examining the lock before deciding it wouldn't be too hard to pick, although he wasn't sure that he could find the cream in there; it was, after all, the middle of the night. As he began working, something touched his back, and he jumped sharply, spinning around and reaching for a familiar length of thick rope. A woman, probably only a few years older than Christine, stood before him, and she looked somewhat surprised at his appearance but said nothing about it. Her desperation took control of her fears. She mumbled out some unintelligible French before reverting back to a Slovak tongue he wasn't familiar with.

Even in the dark, he could see her emaciated frame. Her hair was greasy and hung in thin strands around her face, which was encrusted with dirt and smeared rogue. By now highly uncomfortable, Erik took a step back, but the woman followed, pulling her skirts up to an indecent height. His neck began to feel very warm. Even though he could not understand her, he knew exactly what she was saying.

"Excuse me," he muttered, but she grabbed his coat with a filthy hand. The neckline of her dress made Erik wonder why she wasn't ashamed to go out in public...If he could call this public. The feelings that took him were not new, and he could see _her_, her large, dark eyes wide with fear, and the practically translucent silks that hung off of her, and Erik took several frantic steps away from the destitute woman, fighting back those horribly blinding sensations.

Pointing one bony finger to a dark building, the woman looked at him and then pointed to herself. She then stuck a finger into his thin chest before referring back to herself and the building. Erik watched her raise up five fingers and look at him expectantly. Quivering, Erik glanced at the woman once more before letting his eyes travel to the shadowy, hidden building.

Perhaps she ought to have tried harder to get him to stay. Christine sat anxiously on the couch, attempting to block out the clock's hideous _tick_, _tock_. The edge of her hunger had been worn away by worry. Visions of his bloody shoulder flashed through her mind, and Christine shuddered. She prayed quickly for his safety, standing to walk around the chilly house. Erik would light a fire when he returned, and they would talk before going to bed, and Christine would be ensconced in his arms before falling to sleep. However, no matter how late he arrived, she would not be angry. The last time they argued over something this silly, it resulted in nothing but Christine being tired and irritable the next day. There was a very good explanation for his long absence. She was certain. After all, it was very late, and where would he find cream during this time of the night?

Christine touched her wedding ring, convincing herself that it was still there; Erik was still her husband. The clock was ticking away her self-assurances. She could not pretend _not _to be nervous. Where was Erik? To eat time, she changed into her nightgown and unpinned her hair, feeling its comforting weight brush her neck and back. Even though he had always tried to conceal it, Christine knew that Erik adored her hair very much. Maybe tonight he would run his long, cold hands through it. Even though she had always tried to conceal it, Christine adored Erik's hands in her hair very much.

_Part of being a wife is worrying_, she told herself. She nestled on the couch but jumped up when a loud _creak _announced Erik's return. He walked in, twisting his hat around in his hands. His yellow eyes distant, he stopped in the middle of the room and seemed quite unsure what to do with himself.

"Erik!" she sighed gratefully. "I was worried! You should not do things like that to me. Erik? Did you not get any cream?"

He pushed his hat into her hands, mumbling something and staring somewhere over her shoulder. Deciding it best to humor him, Christine allowed him to mutter until he was quiet.

"What's wrong?" she asked gently, putting a hand on his arm. He looked at his arm briefly, wonder clouding his eyes. "Erik? Won't you look at me?"

"Yes, yes..." he said quietly, going to sit over on the couch. "I'll take some tea."

Surprised but relieved to have him back unharmed (physically, it seemed), Christine hurriedly prepared tea with milk and handed it to Erik, who took it but did not drink. Once again, he looked surprised when she sat beside him and leaned her head against his hard shoulder.

"What is it?" she questioned again. Erik set the tea down and shifted in the couch so that he faced her. A warm flush began to work its way up Christine's back and neck as he tilted his head slightly and stared at her lips. Slowly, his trembling hands came up. She felt an excited shiver run through her limbs as his cold fingertips brushed her hot cheeks. Every other sound except their haggard breathing had disappeared. Erik traced his fingers over her nose and forehead, feeling the skin slide beneath his hands. Her mouth parted slightly, Christine felt her eyes flutter close and leaned into his cool, intoxicating, and painfully-enticing touch. It was just as hazy as Erik's spell of music. They leaned closer, and Christine felt her hands rise to untie his mask. Explosions of that unnamed sensation ripped through her abdomen. And they were so close, so close she could feel the cold radiating from the skin on his gruesome face, so close that she could practically taste his thin lips, so close that all it would take was an involuntary shudder to press their lips together.

Like the times before, Erik ripped himself away, leaving Christine on the couch, feeling an indescribable disappointment pierce her; something she wanted had been taken away, and once more she felt like a spoiled school girl. He stood tensely, clutching his mask in his right hand, and he would not face her.

"Erik, won't you please tell me what's wrong?" Christine finally whispered. She rose from the couch and approached him cautiously. Those feelings had not disappeared from her stomach, and they compelled her to lean against his back, experience the fabric of his coat slide against her warm cheek, and feel his thin shoulder-blades as her hands rested near his large shoulders. How could it be that the last time the two stood here, Christine was repulsed by the slightest brush of his hand against her, and now she actively sought his touch, embraced him willingly, and did not reject the idea of his very being? And how could they survive like this? Christine was afraid, and Erik was afraid. They needed strength from the other but were too proud to ask for it. Feeling a hard lump in her throat, Christine said quietly,

"You must speak with me, Erik. There can be no more secrets, no more lies." Under her cheek, she felt his back stiffen even further. Quite suddenly, he turned around and steadied Christine, who was quite unprepared for his sudden movement.

"You wish to know why Erik...why he is so desperate for a living wife? Why I cannot kiss you now? Why, Christine, do you reach for me like this? What sick fancy does your monstrous husband hold for you? I am just as curious as you, darling. Stop trembling, my love, you will work yourself into hysterics."

Trying very hard to obey him, she sat down on the couch and looked at him expectantly. "I am waiting for your answers," Christine said. She wasn't sure, however, that she wanted them. Erik looked like a frightened, caged animal for a moment, and Christine was not sure if she could anymore stomach all of the emotions that Erik had brought to her that evening.

"It...it was when I was in Mazanderan," he finally said, his voice low. "I...provided them with necessities, I built things for them, and they...they gave Erik something in return." He would not face her, and Christine, sitting calmly on the couch, could hear his vicious fight with his emotions as they rose in his voice. "They...oh, Christine, they gave Erik a wife of his very own, a young, pretty bride who had eyes as black as ink, and long, soft hair to match."

He threw a glance at Christine, yet she was careful not to betray any emotion in her features and continued to watch him, her blue eyes searching, forever searching.

"Oh, Christine, she was there that night...and she was young...much younger than you are, my dear, brave Christine, and..." Erik choked back an awkward sob, and he fell at Christine's feet and buried his face into her lap, his tears staining her nightdress.

"Christine, Christine...Erik is only a man, Christine, and he...he only wanted someone to love him, someone to hold him. He was young, too, Christine, and he was foolish, and he thought that this little wife could love him, and he loved her, and fell asleep next to her, and he was stupid. Erik woke the next morning – it was cold and dark – and saw that his bride had stayed...stayed beside him. When I touched her...oh, when I touched her...she would not wake, and she was no longer warm and soft. His bride was as cold and as pale as Erik himself."

Overcome with sobs, he gripped the white fabric tightly and wept in his young wife's lap. Christine's stomach had flooded with an icy terror. No longer a scared little girl, she fully knew what Erik had meant when he told her that, "Erik is only a man...and he loved her..."

Choking and gasping, he spluttered, "And Erik knew he had killed his pretty wife, killed her by loving her, by touching her, by being her husband. Erik will not let that happen to you, my dear, darling Christine, for he loves you so much that he knows you will be like his dead wife, and he is not angry with you..."

For a long time, Christine said nothing. Her heart was overflowing with some kind of indescribable emotion. She slid off the couch and took Erik's bare face in her hands.

"Erik," she said gently. His golden eyes lifted slowly, thick tears dripping from them steadily.

"Erik, how old was your wife?"

He closed his eyes in a manner of thought and said slowly, "She was...sixteen."

"Did you love her?"

He was silent.

"Erik, did you love her? Think...did you truly love her?"

There was a long, agonizing silence. "No," he whispered. "No, not like Erik loves you, Christine."

"Did she love you?" the young woman persisted.

Erik swallowed. "No, Christine...She did not love me."

"Do you see?" Christine said, her voice soft and almost – _almost _– joyful. "We are two different girls. _You _have made us different, Erik." An unbearable silence filled the room; Christine let her eyes wander over his marred face. "I am ready to tell you how I feel, Erik," she mumbled.

And she embraced Death willingly, eagerly, ready to feel and know.

Each moment led them further and yet closer to themselves, hiding and revealing. They were terrified, courageous, repulsed and fascinated. And, although there was no light that pierced through the house on the lake that night, Christine could swear that she saw the sun rise.


	37. Chapter 37

_Warm_.

The word flashed through Christine's mind and she woke slowly. And warm not just physically; her entire being had a strange, comfortable feeling about it. She was content, happy, and it warmed her very core. Sighing, she pulled the blankets up farther before she was abruptly jostled.

"Christine! Christine!"

She groaned irritably and opened her eyes, watching as Erik peered down at her, his eyes holding an emotion stronger than fear. He took her shoulders and shook her.

"Christine!"

"What?" she demanded grumpily. He took her face in his hands and pushed it left and right, examining the skin, and Christine snapped, "What are you doing? That hurts!"

Erik burst into delighted laughter, resting his masked face on the soft skin of her shoulder, and he began to cry, too, the tears dripping onto the pillows. Christine reluctantly let go of her anger for being woken so suddenly; she ran her small hand through his hair, allowing him the soft moment of terrified relief.

"Are you alive, Christine?" he asked, his voice muffled by her collarbone. "Are you really before Erik, warm and breathing, allowing him to touch you like this? You are not some strange, peculiar spirit coming to haunt me, are you?"

"I am here," was her soft reply.

He looked into her clear blue eyes and asked if he could kiss her. When she agreed, he requested again and again, feverishly embracing her and then watching to see if she would draw breath, open her eyes, and respond. Not long after, he disappeared, leaving her breathless and disoriented. She was sore and climbed out of bed slowly, forcing herself to think of the tasks at hand instead of...other things.

The house was completely still, the ticking of the clock her only company, and she, with a sad sigh, took up a basket of yarn. It had all been strewn together, and she patiently pulled it apart before beginning to roll all the different strands into separate balls. It occupied her hands but not her mind. She allowed herself to think freely, letting the thoughts come into her head.

And, no matter how much she thought, there were little (if no)...negative feelings. She had never felt older and more mature in her life; she was prepared for it. That did not mean she hadn't been afraid – no, she hadn't been able to conceal the terror written plainly on her features. Quite suddenly, her breathing quickened and she felt hot. The yarn shook slightly in her hands. She wondered if she was going to cry and waited for tears that never came.

A _thud _came from the kitchen, and Christine started before going to the room. He had dropped something, which was unsurprising, for at least six large packages were piled in his arms. After depositing them unceremoniously on the table, he picked up the dropped one, muttering. Christine saw, trying not to smile, an assortment of pretty gifts. He pulled out only one package and began to put away the food that was piled inside. Immediately, to give her something to do other than stand foolishly, she went over to help him.

They worked in a highly awkward silence. When their hands brushed, Erik drew away quickly and would not look at her. Christine stilled and bowed her head slightly, her mind turning into whirlpools of confusion. Was Erik angry with her? Had she done something last night to offend him? (She blushed fiercely at the thought.) Perhaps he no longer found her desirable. She remembered reading a magazine serial about a woman who, after the wedding night, found her husband utterly repulsive (it had been a horribly scandalous series). Maybe Erik felt that way about her. But Christine had changed too much to simply sit and wonder. She searched for him and discovered that he had buried himself in a corner amongst a pile of music, rummaging around and mumbling distractedly to himself.

Working up determination and a false courage, she approached him and laid her hand on his broad, skinny back, saying, "Erik?" He jumped and tore himself away from her touch, turning to look at her, his eyes filled with a childlike horror.

"What's wrong?" she asked, kneeling in front of him.

He merely shook his head slowly, still staring at her. Christine drew closer, touching his hand, but he took it away from her quickly.

"What is it?" she demanded angrily, trying to cover up the sob in her voice. "What is it? Why won't you tell me? Why must you do this – hurt me like this?"

Erik looked at her and slowly took off his mask. Nervously, she watched him lean forward and take her elbow. His eyes looked coldly into hers, but they held a terror that he could not hide.

"Erik must have a _living_ wife," he whispered. "I will not kill my wife. I will not be selfish, and I will have a wife that breathes, a wife that talks, a wife that thinks. I will not seduce her with my music, brainwash her into compliance until her soul is mercifully taken by God. Christine, I would rather have you here, alive, than to indulge my human needs and kill you."

There was a powerful silence, and the couple stared at each other. Christine reached out to touch him but brushed only air.

"You think you...forced me?" she replied finally, her voice equally soft. "You think I did not know what I was doing? Look at me! I'm here, I'm breathing, Erik, and you will not kill me by being my husband." Wildly, she leaned in to kiss him, but he turned his head, and her lips bumped into his hollow cheeks.

"I hate you!" she shrieked suddenly, lost in a moment of violent frustration. "I hate you, oh how I _hate _you!" And she was sobbing into his chest, feeling him shush her with useless words, the tears rapidly running down her cheeks. "Why don't you understand?" she moaned. "Why must you make this difficult? Why can't you see that I wanted you as badly as you wanted me?"

Erik immediately grew very still. He found his throat hoarse and dry, and his limbs felt strange, almost to the point of numbness. Christine continued to weep into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and eventually pulling herself into his lap. Erik felt her breath on his neck, and he grew uncomfortable as he remembered the last time it had been there, how her mouth felt against his, how she squirmed under his hands....And yet, one night of pleasure might have destroyed Christine. It was by pure luck that it did not. She was still so young and naïve, a mere child. One night was not enough to push her into womanhood. He bit his tongue to realize his last few thoughts had been muttered out loud.

"I am not a child, Erik," she said firmly. "I have been for far too long, but no more." She leaned up and softly pressed her lips to his cheek. And he was finally convinced.

"Erik," she whispered, "I love you."

----

The wailing was growing louder, and Christine sighed, frustrated, before pushing her hair behind her ears.

"Erik!" she called to the house. _Really_. _That man is insufferable sometimes_.

The baby was squirming in Christine's hands, screaming, her tiny fists waving, and the little boy was trying to crawl into his mother's lap, which was already full. His large blue eyes were full of tears. The table was a mess; it always was during supper. The two children had a strong enjoyment of throwing food around whenever it was presented to them. Her son was growing out of it, but her daughter was just starting. A cup had tipped and spilled water all over the baby's lap, and she began to shriek as the water soaked through.

Before Christine even saw Erik, she could feel him behind her, and she stood quickly, bouncing the little girl soothingly.

"Will you take him?" she asked pleadingly. "My hands are already full."

Without a word, Erik slowly approached and pulled the little boy away, his eyes never leaving his wife's. Somehow, after years, he still managed to make her blush. She turned away, smiling, and held her little daughter closer.

"Make her stop crying," Erik suddenly commanded.

"I'm trying!" Christine said fiercely. When the baby caught sight of her father, her screams subsided into pathetic whimpers, and she reached for him, struggling to escape the motherly grasp. It did not matter how Erik distanced himself; his children adored him. Slowly, he approached his wife, and she graciously gave him the baby, turning her attention to the sniffling little boy who still had a fork clutched in one hand. When she had comforted him, Christine picked him up and turned to find Erik still there, his daughter babbling happily in his arms.

Christine was surprised by this. He was still wary around his children. After their first two years of marriage, he was still unsure if Christine was simply playing with him or really truly loved him. Before he could come to a final conclusion, Christine told him of her first pregnancy.

She was fooling herself to think that he had been only slightly anxious while she was expecting. He refused to talk about the child and wouldn't allow himself to touch her or be comforted in any way. The nine months were very hard for her, and her second pregnancy was not much better.

Usually, Erik would set his children down and wander off somewhere else, content to let them care for themselves. It was especially difficult whenever Christine fell ill, whether from a cold or otherwise. He did not seem to understand that children had to be fed and watched. Whenever she, exasperated by the shrieks that came from the front room, would rise from her sickbed to care for them, he became irrepressibly angry with her and forced her back into bed.

"You must watch them," she said defiantly. He would glare at her momentarily before scooping up the baby and taking the boy by the hand to lead them out of the room.

"_I _could always care for myself," he would respond snappishly.

"Yes, well, we're not all geniuses like you, dear." And she would smile.

Erik stared at Christine, his eyes wide with curiosity and tinged with a slight fear as his daughter squirmed happily. Both children had inherited dark, wavy locks that stuck out everywhere and wide eyes that conveyed every expression possible.

"I will put her to bed," Christine promised, and they awkwardly exchanged children. Erik's son was just beginning to speak in complete sentences, and he liked to speak simply to hear his own voice. Giving her son one last kiss, Christine left the kitchen for her daughter's room. Both husband and wife were grateful for children who had no trouble sleeping. Before Christine had even extinguished the candle, the baby was already fast asleep.

The kitchen was empty when she returned. Curious, she checked in on the small bedroom and found her son curled up in bed. Smiling softly, she made her way down the hall and tripped over the large basket of clothes. She picked it up, intent on darning socks in the quiet of her bedroom. It seemed there was never an end to repairs, especially with her son, who Erik claimed was, in fact, some type of wild animal. And when she was finished and just settling down to work on her quilt (she would finish it someday), a new pile of ripped clothing would appear the next day. She finally entered their room, a soft sigh escaping her, expecting Erik to be asleep. There was only one thing physically about Erik that had changed during the years: he slept. It was always wonderful to see him splayed out peacefully, his long limbs relaxed. The sight made her smile. Not that he slept as much as a normal person should – no, he still got by with little, but at least he obtained _more_.

Erik, however, echoed her sigh. He sat at his large writing desk, papers strewn every which way. Letters were mixed with music scores.

Without thinking, she set the basket down, walked over to him, and settled herself in his lap, ignoring his annoyed groan. When she untied his mask, he stiffened – as always – but relaxed when her palms came to rest on his cheeks, and she kissed him softly in thanks.

"I have to finish these tonight," he said, but he did not stop her.

"They will wait for your music," she replied, smiling as his arms finally drew her closer.

The two were quiet for a minute, content to breathe together. "I'm not writing my music," he complained. "I am writing what people wish to hear; that is not my music."

She looked at him unflinchingly, taking in his ghastly appearance easily. "When I went down to the town yesterday, everyone was singing your new ballad. If they weren't singing it, they were humming it or whistling it or even playing it on the church organ."

"Hmm, yes," he responded dryly. "A ballad that will be forgotten next season."

"I doubt that." She knew what he wished to hear, having had practice for years.

He asked, "Is the baby asleep?"

"Yes. Thank you for putting your son to bed."

"_Your _son."

"Our son."

She leaned against him, comforted by his hard chest. The glowing candlelight cast a soft, sleepy shadow against the wall, and Christine stared at the flames. They had destroyed her first home, taken her from her first happiness with Erik....And she was not stupid. She knew that Erik would have never, ever left a candle burning. The fire had not been an accident. This was an unspoken understanding between the two of them. But, as she looked at the flames, she realized that she did not regret this fact. Christine curled deeper into him, and he ran his long fingers through her hair.

"I am sorry," was his sudden remark. His voice was tight, muffled, and he gripped Christine tightly.

"Whatever for?"

"For being unable to make you happy. Erik wants to be the father that Christine's children deserve, for your sake, but he cannot."

She sat up instantly, watching his blank, morose expression. "Do not _ever_ say anything like that again!" she commanded. "You are the only man I would want to be the father of my children."

"Even your young man?" He eyed her shrewdly, watching for changes in her mouth and eyes.

"I have no idea about whom you are talking," she finally said.

"Don't you – "

"Quiet," she commanded, resting her head on his shoulder once more. Another peaceful silence reigned over the two, and their thoughts drifted.

They both shifted slightly as Christine sat up again and looked at him, staring into his golden eyes.

"Erik." That one word was spoken so sincerely, so softly, so warmly, so lovingly, and Erik swallowed harshly, finding tears come to him.

"I have something to tell you."

A heavy silence reigned, and Erik searched her.

"Christine, if you tell me you are pregnant _again_, I shall be very put out."

She smiled, her eyes sparkling with delight, before kissing him thoughtfully. "Well, if I was, it isn't as if it is my fault."

The dress was slipping through his fingers, and he enjoyed the soft ribbon that encircled her waist.

"Erik," she suddenly said, "It took me two years to tell you that I love you. And I'm grateful for those two years; we have struggled for our love, strengthened it. I know that we...fight sometimes – "

"Constantly," he muttered, mildly amused at their past insignificant arguments.

"_Sometimes_. But nothing you can say will make me take back my soul. You own it – I want you to keep it forever."

His hands were sliding through her soft hair. "I feel as if there is something that ties you to me, a rope that is more delicate than moonlight and stronger than iron. Neither time nor distance can sever something so beautiful." Erik smiled, his lips twisting oddly, but Christine found it utterly irresistible.

As she leaned in to kiss him once again, he stopped her, watching her eyes closely. "Christine." His voice – that _voice _– wrapped around her, and she closed her eyes just to revel in the sound of her name. "I love you."

"I love you, Erik."

A sigh escaped him, content and soft as she embraced him.

"This is the heaven I was speaking of," he murmured. "A paradise that is incomparable."

Christine smiled.

"We share paradise."

_Fin_


End file.
